Folly
by AKKON
Summary: A man, trying to face a heritage he's fought long to deny. A woman, trying hard to forget. Human foolishness, that is. LCKT, past AoD.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Lara or any other Tomb Raider characters. I'm writing this for fun and not for profit. I just happened to play AoD and this stupid story wouldn't go out of my head. Therefore, you can say I'm exorcising myself. The story might contain some AoD spoilers. Cursing. Explicit scenes. The works. You've been warned…

**Please note: The following is an optional chapter, meaning that it's not relevant for the story itself. The actual story starts with chapter 2, which should be chapter 1, as this is only a prologue, and…I know, pretty confusing, huh? Just read it first or skip it altogether and start at chapter 2. It's up to you. Reviews, even negative ones, are very much appreciated.

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**FOLLY

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**

_Prologue_

When the shouting starts, _Oreille_ goes and hides under the veranda. I crawl in after him, although I know I might get a smack for ruining my good shirt, but I think this must be _le Requin Sale_ shouting, and that means he's found the dead chicken. I've told _Oreille_ a million times to leave the chickens alone, but he won't listen. We lie very still in the dark and I'm hoping Baba will tell _le Requin_ it was an opossum that got the chicken, or a lion.

I hear the sound of big feet coming closer, and I put my hand around _Oreille_'s snout, but still he lets out a low growl. He's wagging his tail, so I know it's not _le Requin Sale c_oming. _Oreille_ isn't afraid of anything, excepting _le Requin Sale_.

A pair of boots comes to halt in front of my nose.

"Madou, Madou…Looks like you're in big trouble…"

I peer out to see if he's talking to ME. He isn't looking down, but there is no one else around. He smiles and goes off to the shed where he keeps his bike.

After a moment, I crawl out and follow him, making sure no one sees me.

I ask him, "Are you going into town?"

He nods.

"Can we go with you? Please?"

I'm wanting to get away from _le Requin_, but I'm also hoping Marie-Céleste will see me on the bike.

"He will kill _Oreille_!"

"Well, maybe that will teach _Oreille_ not to go hunting those chickens. Bad dog," he tells him, bending down to pat his head.

I think that means Yes. I pick up _Oreille_ and put him into my shirt, pulling at the collar so he can stick his head out. _Oreille_ starts licking my chin.

He lifts us up and puts us on the bike.

_L'americain_ has been here for a few months now.When he first arrived, everyone was a bit afraid of him. We don't get many whities here, they all go to the Hotel at St. Tommé beach. Marie-Céleste says he is poor and that's why he cannot stay at the Hotel. But he cannot be, because no one else has such a wonderful bike. _Le Requin Sale_ says he just appreciates being on his own in a comfortable house, and that's why he has rented the old hut off him. Comfortable house my foot, says Baba. My shed is more comfortable than your hut, with that roof full of holes like a colander.

_Le Requin Sale_ built the house. It's just a room with a thatched roof. Baba says the next hurricane will surely blow it away, but many hurricanes have passed and the house is still standing.

It's as solid as if it was made of rock, says _le Requin_.

I think maybe he built it for the chickens, but realized then it would be too far away to go every day to collect the eggs. It's a good walk away from our village. _L'americain _seems to like it, though. But there is no road going there, that's why he has to leave his bike in our shed. We do not have any chickens.

"Nice T-shirt," he tells me as we pull out to the road.

I smile as wide as I can, because that always makes him laugh. He says I look funny with my two missing teeth. I've told him it was _le Requin_ who knocked them out, although it's not true. They just fell off. Marie-Céleste tells me I will get new ones eventually, with little frills at the edges, but I hope not. Frills are for girls.

The T-shirt was his before it was mine. He gave it to me because I liked it so much. He said it would be way too big, but I told him I'd grow fast, so he said _Okay_.

It has a face on it, someone who's called _Kurkubain_. _L'americain_ told me he was a very famous singer, out there in _Ah-mérica_. _L'americain_'s name is Kurtis.

Here's what I want to do on my first school day next year: I want Kurtis to bring me there on his bike, while I'm wearing my T-shirt with _Kurkubain_. I think that will impress even Marie-Céleste with the frilly teeth.

We arrive fast into town. We pass many people on our way there and I wave at them all because I'm hoping they'll go and tell and then everyone will be afraid to smack me in case I get Kurtis to smack them back. When we arrive, he buys me an orange, and cigarettes for himself. I ask if he'll let me have one, but he says No, they'll make me sick and you're too young to smoke. Then, we go to the post-office. We have to leave _Oreille_ outside, because last time we were here he peed on the floor and the woman from the post-office told Kurtis next time you'll have to wipe that off with that letter of yours. She's very fat.

He's got a letter. He gets quite a few. Some are good letters and some are bad. I can always tell by his face.

We go outside to read it, but I can't, because it's in _anglais_, which is what people speak in _Ah-mérica_, and because I have not learned to read yet.

This time it is a very bad one, because he is very silent after he reads it.

Marie-Céleste says men don't cry and that's how you know you're a grown-up at last, when you just can't cry, no matter how hard you're smacked.

I know better, now.

When we get back, Kurtis says he'll talk to _le Requin Sale_ about the dead chicken and not to be afraid for _Oreille_. I would like to tell him I'm more afraid of him leaving for _Ah-mérica_, but I don't know how.

Two days later, he is gone, and so is his bike. Baba tells _le Requin_ it's because that roof is like a colander. I'm hoping _le Requin_ won't be putting his chickens in there now, even if that would mean that I could let _Oreille_ run free again, but then, I'm hoping he'll come back. He has forgotten the letter, I found it where it had slid behind a loose board. I hide it very carefully in my secret place, which is a very good secret place that no one knows of. Marie-Céleste says if you want to know so badly what's on the letter, why don't you go to _Ah-mérica_ and ask _Kurkubain_.


	2. White

**

* * *

**

FOLLY_

* * *

_

_Beauty is as close to terror_

_**As we can well endure.**_

_**Angels would not condescend**_

_**To damn our meagre souls.**_

_**That is why they awe**_

_**And why they terrify us so.**_

_**Every angel is terrible!**_

_**Rainer Maria Rilke**_

**WHITE**

Think of white. A white room. White sheets. A man's face, so pale that it seems to fade into the white pillow. Thick, endless snow blanketing a somber city. All thoughts fading into white. The bliss of blankness.

Lara closes her eyes. White is just a fleeting relief. She doesn't want to think or remember, but behind the closed lids, images are spinning madly. Like paintings, made of blood and darkness.

She knows now that the nightmare was not over the moment the first ray of light burst in on her reddened irises, the moment she finally dragged her torn, pained self from under the collapsed rocks, after the last pyramid -_for she'll never look at one from the inside again, not if she's asked first -_came tumbling down on her.

She thought then, swore to herself, she would never go raiding earth's bowels again. Let the hidden stay hidden, and yet…

_Werner, my teacher, my mentor. Father, nemesis. I almost felt pity for you, you pathetic, scared old man. Begging help from the very person you tried so hard, so stubbornly, to annihilate.You had no pity for me, not then, not after. I did. Pity and rancor, the whip that sends me jumping, fleeing, scurrying around and hiding like a cornered rat. Climbing. Killing. A trapped animal will always bite back._

"**_It's too dangerous for me! But she will be able!"_**

_Your last betrayal, Werner. And what for? Just a hideous death, and your guts festooning the walls of your, well, what, exquisite 'appartement'. Your precious books scattered all over the floor, the rain coming in through the broken windowpanes. You were right, though. I was._

A blank mind. A man in a hospital bed, so drained of blood that his waxy skin seems to fade into the white sheets.

All her adventures end like this. All her nightmares begin this way. Blankness. Exhaustion. Surely she could have chosen to believe the monster, the creature - for why say "Karel". Karel never was. What was, was a being that lacked a name and a shape, a being older than time or the mysticism of men, forced to steal existences and identities in its quest for survival. Lying, for deceiving is his nature-trying to make her believe, actually making her believe, for the fraction of a moment: that the others are just the misfits of our own fantasy. But no, deep inside she had known all along that it was just the easy option, and she's never been one to go for easy solutions. And had picked up that disc. His weapon. Had felt it trembling lightly in her hand, willing her forwards.

Like Sartre said, _**"L'enfer c'est les autres", **« Hell is other people »._ So she must be dead, after all, because this certainly feels like hell. 

They end like this or begin this way: a desperate breakout, a hopeless race to escape the horror.

Her first thought when she finally stumbled over his unconscious form, had been to leave him behind. Or maybe put him out of misery. Well, she hadn't. The tribute to a single caress, to the brief touch of rough, tender fingers wandering over her body.

_Darned hormones_, thinks Lara.

_You are just tired. Get some sleep. Think of white._

Enough presence of mind to stuff quickly weapons and ammo into the backpack, go through his pockets-no ID, nothing, only an old fashioned hotel key attached to a green plastic key ring, room 21-and hide the lot in a gully. Times are hard enough, no need to go finding plausible explanations for the impressive arsenal that the two of them have managed to pick up along the way.

Only as she is filling out the hospital forms does it strike her that she doesn't even know his full name.

* * *

The first night, a cell. The second, a rundown hotel, room 23. She has been to sixteen others before scoring. Not wanting to ask questions, (and you can bet the man would not choose a question-answering type of hotel). Making up stupid excuses until coming across the right key. A twin to the one that's burning a hole in her pocket.

She has to fight back sleep while she waits for her moment to do a little breaking in. Room 21 looks just as she has imagined it. It smells of dampness and desertion. In a closet she finds a dark holdall. Crumpled clothes. Shaving gear, painkillers, the works. A well-thumbed paperback. The wallet is in a side pocket. Passport, driving license, two credit cards. Name is Trent. Eyes and face exactly as she remembers them. A blank face, it will tell you nothing.

Absentmindedly she leafs through the book, although she knows there's little hope she'll find a dedicatory or an Ex-libris, or even, imagine, a pencil-underlined passage! She expects to find so little that when the photograph tumbles out of the book, she thinks for a second she's just imagining it.

Right, she shouldn't. Yet she takes it with her. Back in her room she spends a long time studying it. Wherever it's been taken, it was a far better place than this shabby room in this black city under its ball gown of pristine snow. Some Mediterranean place, the sunny terrace of some _palazzo_, cocktails, a family shot. An adolescent boy with longish hair and the delicate frame of bones already stretching towards manhood under a child's skin. Sulking or smirking, pouted out bottom lip. Carefully, her fingertip cover the blue eyes looking at her from beyond the wall of time.

* * *

None of her business, really. The Police have presented their excuses-if somewhat halfheartedly. The man's condition is still delicate, but stable. Her fingertips lightly brush the closed lids.

She asks the head nurse to hand him an envelope. It is, of course, white. _If he survives._


	3. Fate's carrot

**FATE'S CARROT**

"Jurij? It's Lara."

A short pause. Then, true joy.

"Lara! My doll! How ARE you!"

"I'm fine. Sort of."

Why does she feel compelled to talk? The more she talks, the weaker she feels…

"Well, let me say: I _will _be fine. Eventually."

"_Da_. I see. Raising hell, you've been."

"Business as usual, Jurij. Or my bad karma."

"Huho. None of that esoterical mumbo-jumbo with me, girl."

A rattling sound comes through the wire. She can picture him clearly; his burly shape, short fingers thick as sausages and clad with golden rings, rapping impatiently against an empty glass while he waits for his latest wife, a former prima-ballerina of the St. Petersburg Ballet with a swan-like neck and a weakness for mink coats, to refill it. Ex-KGB, utterly corrupt, flashy, unscrupulous, dreaded by his enemies but worshipped by his friends.

"Didn't see you at the funeral."

"Courtesy of the Czech police. Some mess, that was. Don't think I could have handled it, anyway."

"Old Werner…I'm so sorry, Larissa."

"Don't be. I am still not sure whether he was such a big loss."

She can feel the Russian's discomfort even through the telephone.

"At the time of Egypt… don't know, Larissa, and you won't talk about it, not even to your old friends, but…back then….desperate, he was. He really felt guilty."

"And guilty he was, Zhivago. Let's drop it. And my name is NOT Larissa."

But God bless his sweet Russian soul, and bless Werner too, even if the old coward was just using her, once again. Not that it did him any good. Death's stiffness for him and the pain of the chase for her. The avenging angel.

Lara laughs bitterly at her reflection on her bedroom's window. Rivulets of rain weaving their paths on the other side of the glass, drawing tears on her haggard face, as if her mirrored image was silently crying. Lara's eyes are dry. She cannot remember the last time she shed a tear.

"Would you like me to come over? Keep you company? I've got a new shipment of excellent vodka. First class quality. We could knock a few down."

"No. Thanks. I'm fine. But I need information."

"Shoot."

"Kurtis Trent. French passport, but born 1972, Salt Flats, Utah, US. Could all be fake. Probably is."

"Agent?"

"Don't think so, but definitely military training of some sort."

"That's all?"

"I'm sorry. I know it's not much. He happened to cross my path."

"Did he. Poor chap."

"You said it. He isn't answering questions right now. Thought it would be a good idea to ask you instead."

"I'll see what I can do. Gimme a ring tonight, will you?"

"Thanks."

* * *

All the things you can buy with money. Like having a nurse or a doctor keep you informed. So she knows, but is not there to watch those eyes opening. Must have been one of her lucky days.

* * *

"Just this," the nurse tells him , handing over an envelope.

It is addressed to Mr. Trent. Inside, wrapped up in a blank paper sheet, is a Post Box key.

Kurtis sighs and lets his eyes wander over the white ceiling.

Every breath fuels the pain, the incredible, all-pervading flash of suffering his body has become. He's alive, though. A few minutes ago he'd had his doubts. The key in his fist is like the key to resurrection.

* * *

"Bingo. Your guy does actually exist, even if only since 1991. No 'Trent' before that."

"Go on."

"Foreign Legion, five years. You'll love this. His nickname was 'Demon Hunter'."

"Interesting. Why?"

"Good question. Looks like your guy had a particular tendency to get mixed up in situations of the, ahem, how should I put it? Paranormal kind? However, at some stage it got too much, even for the legion. He quit. He's made a poor job covering his tracks since. Here and there.The odd bit of work."

"Mercenary?"

"It certainly looks so, _da_. Speaks fairly good _Ruski._"

"Thank you for non-relevant details."

"My pleasure, Larissa. Wonder how come we've never met, sounds like the kind of man who knows what horse to place his bet on. But then, he hasn't been active for the last year and a half. Sort of vanished. Whoosh, just like that."

"Oh, did he? He's sort of materialized again," she mumbles pensively. "Jurij, I owe you one. Even if my name is NOT Larissa."

"Don't mention it. Look, not that I'm telling you how to conduct your business, but you want to take care. One of his main employers in the last few years was the Agency…"

"The Agency?"

"A thinly disguised recruitment service for mercenaries and killers. Hitmen, snipers. Got a problem, they'll sort it out for you. Run by Marten Gunderson."

"Not anymore. Had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Unless he's got a very thick skin, I doubt…"

She knows she's fooling herself even before she's finished speaking.

"All right," she sighs. "Tell me."

"Well, dunno if I want to know under what kind of circumstances you've met Mr. Gunderson, but I can tell you one thing for sure: Gunderson IS alive. The guy I talked to, why, he works for him too. He's on a weekend-off, back to see old friends…"

"You don't say! That friend of yours, how did he like Prague?"

She laughs at Jurij's silence.

"Never mind. Tell him he's a lucky man. I'm seeing you around."

* * *

Lara dashes across the gallery and leaps over the banister. It's a long fall down, and a heavy, clumsy landing. Her poxy luck won't even grant her the relief of a sprained ankle. A bit of physical pain would be welcomed. That, she can handle. She sprints across the hall and repeatedly thumps the switch that opens the front door. A gust of wind lashes against her risen face, rain prickling her skin like a million tiny daggers. If it ever stopped raining! Her contorted mouth works spasmodically against the rain, until a long scream finds its way out.

Behind her, a loud rattle of broken crockery, as a startled Winston drops the tray.

_You knew, you knew it from the beginning. So what?_ That steady, merciless voice that has followed her since…when? Cambodia? Egypt? Oh, she knows whose voice it is. Sounds just like hers, but it's Werner's.

„**_Vorsicht, junge Dame: Das Vertrauen ist die Mutter der Narrheit"_**." _Trust is the mother of folly_."

_You were a fine teacher, Werner. Maybe I did not listen carefully enough. But trust an ass not to stumble twice over the same stone.

* * *

_

_**Kurtis,**_

_**If you are reading this, it means Boaz did a sloppy job.**_

_**The place is called Croft Manor, Co. Surrey.**_

_**It's easy enough to find.**_

_**Lara.**_

His bag. His documents. His Boran-X. An open ticket to Heathrow.

The man closes the post box with a light swing of his hand and steps back into the street.

Spring has arrived in Prague.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, yes. The german quote. I'm aware that such a saying doesn't exist. I was working at the story, couldn't think of anything better and said to myself, well, Akkon, if necessity is the mother of invention, you may use just that. By now I think the quote is terrible, but since the whole story is evolving around it…**


	4. Old friends

**OLD FRIENDS**

He focuses on the reflection of the man coming towards him on the makeshift mirror of a shop windowpane, like some kind of unavoidable Fata-Morgana. The darkly dressed giant comes to stand at his side, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Like Kurtis's.

"She was a tough bitch. Would have told you, had you asked me."

"Marten," he sighs

"Trent," the big man smiles. His smile is icy, more like a cut in the pale Nordic face. "You've gone rusty. Or was it a bad case of Murphy's Law?"

"Look who's talking. Bad case of recruiter's shortage? That show you put up in the Louvre was some sorry act."He remembers a certain Chinese gong and smirks back.

"Aaah, _la femme,"_ sighs Gunderson. They're both eyeing a well-shaped brunette in their minds. "A fine specimen. I should consider recruiting _her_, but I hear she's stinking rich. But then, women… You can't turn your back on them. Bitches."

"So, the boss's dead?"

"Oh well. Eckhardt is. Your Miss Croft isn't a prissy woman. You needn't have gone so courteous all of a sudden."

"You needn't have thrown me down into that pit."

"I had sentimental reasons, Trent. Kristina was a bitch, but she had a fantastic arse. She deserved someone to end her suffering."

With a speed that belies the light joking tone, Marten Gunderson extracts a carved, disc-shaped object from his pocket.

"The master will want to talk to you about _this_."

He puts it away with the same relaxed swiftness.

So. There it is. Although he's started to like her immensely, he curses her inwardly. Damned woman could have taken _that_ with her as well…

"Is it business or a warning?"

"Both," chuckles Gunderson. "Stay tuned."

* * *

He wishes all the last months were just a Fata-Morgana. Like when he first came rushing to Prague, hoping for a last chance, knowing it was too late.

"Who's there?"

"_Frater, ave atque vale,"_ he murmurs, leaning his forehead against the metal door.

The door flies open. Kurtis finds himself in a tight embrace. The man steps back, and, holding him by his shoulders, looks him up and down.

"The devil come get me! It's Konstantin's boy! It's been a long time, Kurtis."

"Long indeed. Hello, Vasiley."

* * *

Blank faced, he fingers the shards Vasiley has given him.

"He's dead, right?"

The man sitting in front of him nods slowly.

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"What about the others? Fitzsimmons? Bogomille ? DeCombel?"

"They're all gone. There is only me left. And you, now. Konstantin was right, you'd come when the time was there."

Kurtis shakes his head dispiritedly. There's things he won't even think, much less talk about.

"So, who did it? Eckhardt?"

Mathias Vasiley nods.

"How was he killed?"

"You don't want to know. Same way I will, same way you might."

"They'll be coming after you now."

"I know. I'm ready."

Kurtis doubts this man, the last link between him and his past, is going to put up much of a stand. He was already old in the memories of his youth, and he hasn't aged well since. The wars of shadows have left him the memento of an arm like a twisted, scorched claw, and a lame leg. The fighting spirit is still there, though, at the bottom of the clever eyes. A short wave of disgust washes over Kurtis when he thinks about the irony of this man and his lodge, stuck in a world that has long ago left them behind.

"Of course he's looking for the paintings. He's got three. Two more to go." Vasiley says.

"The Sanglyph?"

"The Sanglyph. Five paintings, five fragments."

"It could be risky for Eckhardt too. But he knows that surely?"

"He was always a fool. A dangerous one. Been doing all kind of nasty things. Rumours are that he's trying to revive the **_Nephilim_**. The **_Nephilim_**, of all things."

"He wants his big show-down."

"He's having it all right."

"What happened, Mathias? I thought we had a pact with… him… you know who. Unleashing the beast is pure madness."

"I don't know, son. _He_ isn't in charge anymore." Vasiley shakes his head. "It all happened so quickly. There's nothing we can do about it.We'll just be patient and let Eckhardt collect the paintings."

Vasiley hands over a fax.

"This man, Professor Von Croy, has contacted me. He's been commisioned by Eckhardt to find the paintings. I've sent him four sketches. He'll have to come himself to collect the fifth."

"Good God! He won't. Eckhardt will come."

"Possibly. Or something that LOOKS like Eckhardt. **_Der Gestaltwandler_**. That's why we need the Sanglyph, though only Eckhardt has the power to put it together again. But he will be going for the fourth painting first, and that gives us a few days. It's in Paris, under the Louvre."

Kurtis nods. "And the fifth?"

"Here. Right under your feet."

* * *

"You'll need this, Kurtis", says Vasiley, and carefully places a metal disc on top of the table. The Chirugai, the most precious weapon of the Lux Veritatis, memory of stardust, Phoenix bird with five lethal wings. The Glaive, that feeds on the blood of living and dead things, that can kill what's never been alive.

"I can't take this. You'll be defenseless", says Kurtis, his voice tinged with fear.

"I'm an old man, and I'm tired. My family's been wiped out, and so have my brothers. I can't stop them, but you can. YOU can, you hear me?"

Kurtis buries his face into his hands, hating the way his voice quivers, whiny like a child's.

"I never wanted to! I never never wanted to!"

Vasiley places a supportive hand on his knee.

"I know, Kurtis. But some choices are not ours to make. It's in your blood, in your soul. _Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes_."

Kurtis bites back a sarcastic remark. Whatever these men venerated, it is lost to him. He believes in punishment, though. In avenging the death of the man that casts such a long shadow over his life. He reaches out a hesitant hand. When he touches the glaive, it lights up under his fingers. It's calling, singing for him.

Vasiley catches the vibrant disc swiftly and it instantly stops, submissive.

"You won't be making this journey alone, son."

He turns the disc in his hand and points at the delicate engraving exactly under his palm.

"See here? Get the Sanglyph. And then, you just leave it to the Chirugai. Let _him _choose."

* * *

The room is in utter darkness, but for the faint glow emanating from the white shape. Since Prague, light hasn't agreed well with the creature, as if the explosion had somehow damaged its nonexistent retinas.

It's a miracle of sorts that it survived (if the word "miracle" could be applied to something that is a miracle in itself), more so that it managed to creep its way back into the arms of the only person able to save or doom it.

Now and again, it seems to recover enough to assume a somewhat more humanlike shape, and when that happens, it is almost cruel to see it hanging from its chains, chin sunk deep into its chest, human lids shielding the unnatural, dark pebbles that pass for eyes.

Music soothes it. Mahler is always a good choice. Once, mainly to see its reaction, the _illusionist_ plays a bit of opera, a bit of Puccini. It starts screaming and thrashing as if the soprano's voice was ripping its heart apart. Oh, that's good. A heart. It does not possess one.

The _illusionist_ has always found it difficult to explain to himself the creature without resorting to the words he despises. Heart, miracle, retinas. This thing was not meant to exist, not in this world. Still, he's never repented that he brought it away with him that time. Oh, no, he didn't do it for power, nor for immortality–that came later-but because he was so blinded by its sheer beauty. **_Elohim_**, Child of God, final proof of his existence. Or maybe of his absence, for what kind of God would allow such a monstrosity to exist?

Of course it hadn't taken him long to realize that it was indeed a monster, something that couldn't be controlled, but something that lusted for absolute control itself. He had made sure that it was put securely away. But some secrets are hard to bear alone, and so he had shared it. And if Pieter hadn't been so greedy, so blind, it would have stayed hidden.

Hidden as it is now. Hanging from its chains, still as if lifeless. Biding its time. The man watches it long before speaking.

"My dear, dear Joachim. _Jachin_! Look what you've turned into…By his strength he will be established, but what shall we do now that the strenght is lost? What a shame about Boaz, your lovely, strong sister!"

It doesn't answer.

"How foolish of you to confide in Pieter. You know it was the wrong decision. Did I not warn you?"

"He said he would revive my children…"

"Pieter said many things when the day was long. Your children are dead. They've been dead for a very long time, my dear. What am I supposed to do with you now?"

"I'll be faithful."

"I have heard those words before, and I was deeply disillusioned," says the man, shaking his head, slowly. "Your stupidity, and Pieter's greed have brought us to this. The end of the Cabal. Is protecting you worth the trouble?"

The creature hisses, and the long sharp claws uncurl menacingly. Despite its apparent weakness, he knows better than to provoke it. He has little doubt of what the creature would do to him if given half a chance. Why, the dead half of his face is a constant reminder. Smiling, the man mirrors his move, a shiny, circular object in his hand. Due credit to Gunderson, always the right man for dodgy jobs. He costs a fortune, but at least he had the common sense to retrieve the Sanglyph, and more, to return it to the right hands. The creature bucks, rattling its chains. Enough.

"My dear Joachim! It hurts, doesn't it? So stupid, so unnecessary. Revive your children! Ha! Is it possible that after so many centuries you still haven't understood that you are nothing? An empty vessel, you are! A void! Empty, and now, chained. Did you not SEE who was coming after you? Did I not tell you to keep away from Eckhardt?"

"It was all his fault. He underestimated her. I tried to distract her…"

"I'm not talking about the woman. I mean the man."

"He's dead."

"No, he isn't. You foolish thing! He is the last of the lodge. Your keeper is looking for you, Joachim."

"He is weak. A mortal."

"And you are weak, as well, now. Due to a mortal's doings…"

"Give me the woman, and I shall destroy him. I'll make you powerful again."

Oh, yes, that has been its soft spot all along. Its loneliness. It being so terrible that no living thing could ever share its terribleness. A child of God, after all, but one God has chosen to forget.

"Joachim, Joachim. You still do not understand. Knowledge itself is the power. Only the player understands the game. Why, tell me, did I free you then?"

"For power. For eternal life."

"No, my dear. For love. Because I loved you."

The man's long pale hand caresses the feverish glowing creature. It tries dimly to resist, but only for a moment. Before the joyous eyes of its master, its shape starts to change, crystallizing in a beautiful boy with eyes luminous as stars.

"Now, that's a lot better," the man says, brushing the silky hair away from the immaculate forehead. "-my beautiful boy. The cycle is coming to its end. Or to its beginning. I'll give you the woman. Then, we'll find a solution for your warden."

* * *

**A/N: Stultum est timere… (see above): "It is foolish to fear what you cannot avoid." Not that it really matters, but I love the sentence. And wonder why this guy calls Joachim "Jachin"? Go and check out. Really interesting.**


	5. Welcome to Croft manor

**CROFT MANOR**

_That's it, ready. Off you go._

She jumps, positions herself, jumps again.

Her own weight tears painfully at her joints as she grabs the edge, then pulls herself up. The next two jumps are perfectly executed, with long practiced routine. She can feel the adrenaline building up, blood pumping steadily through her veins. Growing confident.

Next thing, she jumps just a fraction of a second too early from the sloped ledge. Her legs kick air frantically but she still falls an inch or two short. Uncontrolled, her body crashes against the wire mesh, skin scraping sorely, hands still trying hopelessly to grip the wall as she plummets down, sending water splashing all over.

Leaning on the brim of the pool, she runs aching palms over her face, pushing soaked hair out of her eyes. Stays hunched, eyes shut, but only a moment. Shaking angrily, she climbs out and heads for the start again.

That's why she doesn't notice him until he speaks up:

"I'd say that was a fraction of a second too soon."

And there he is, perched casually on one of the crates, smoking, not two steps away from where she's standing.

"How did you get in!"

"Through the door-" with his chin he motions vaguely towards the kitchen door.

"Winston let you in?"

"That the old bloke's name? Yep. A relative of yours?"

"My butler."

"Aawh. Of course."

He's grinning broadly now. Lara looks at him in dismay. She has been caught by surprise and right now she seems unable to remember her lines. She's searching for words as he lets himself slide down, landing with a soft thump at her side. Their eyes lock.

Did either one of them ever consider seriously this moment would come? No wonder she is lost for words. How the heck do you greet a once-partner-come back from the dead? Do you kiss a stranger? Do you embrace your alter ego if you suspect him to be lethal?

They settle for a courteous handshake. A tiny second too long.

His trust inspiring voice. "Thank you. For everything."

Lara swallows and fights desperately to keep an unconcerned expression.

"Excepting those kicks you gave me on the way to the hospital."

"What was I supposed to do? Heave big pestering Sleeping Beauty and jog over?" Hands on her waist, chin thrust challengingly forward.

"Sleeping Beauty was awakened with a kiss. It could have sort of worked..."

"Sorry, no princes around. But you're right about the kicking. Shouldn't have. By the way you looked, I thought it would be my last chance to pay you back for all that frisking at the Louvre."

"Never mind. I deserved them all. Not for THAT, mind you, but for being a dickhead and turning my back on Ugly before checking she was really out cold."

"Well…you were in a hurry…"

Warm smiles hanging in the air.

"Were you planning to stay?"

She watches his eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise.

"Were you planning to make me stay?"

She can't help it. She laughs. Cheeky bastard.

"No. But I've got a feeling we won't be running out of conversation. And you are welcome if you feel like having a bit of a holiday."

Kurtis lets his eyes wander over the huge house that towers at her back. After all, he knew she would ask. She knew he would be staying.

"I'm tempted…"

As his impossibly blue eyes return to her own, Lara realizes suddenly she's been standing there forever as though dumb struck, gaping, and drenching wet. She quickly grabs a towel, rubs her scalp and wraps it around her soaked shoulders. Fighting to get out of her boots, she motions him towards the door.

"Ask Winston to show you to your room. I need a change of clothes. Meet you in twenty minutes in the music room, first floor. You can ask Winston or go and find it yourself."

She bites hard her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud at his confused expression.

"A music room, Kurtis. A room with, let's say, a 'piano' in it?"

* * *

Twenty minutes later, a more settled Lara walks resolutely towards the music room. Faded jeans, black top, bare feet. Freshly washed hair combed and tightly braided. Her face bare of make-up. A bold face, even if mistreated by sun and rough weather; a generous mouth set firmly into the perpetual sarcastic scowl. _Let him see who you really are._

The bare feet, not an attempt at 'casual' - she seldom is - but plain necessity. An old house, with all the little ailments - complaining floorboards, for example - that come with age (the problem of which is, as her late Aunt liked to state, that the mind refuses to acknowledge the deteriorating body. _And don't think I'm doing you a favour, dear, by leaving you this place_…this followed by a devious cackle, and she wasn't lying, of course, the witch. It takes an awful lot of money to keep this sullen ship afloat, fight back the army of mice, tear apart the shroud that the industrious spiders constantly weave.)

And now she's at the door, looking at the back of a dead man slumped on a fragile piano-stool, running an idle finger over the keys of the venerable Steinway that no one has played in the past twenty years.

He should be dead, and instead, there he is, as if it were the most natural place in the world for him to be. A feeling she can't quite pin down, although it might be plain irritation, makes her hands itch. Expecting him all along, and then again, not. A pool of crimson and his white shape on it - _he's dead_, she had thought, and the round blade twitched in her grip, and if he's not, let a bullet be the final act of mercy- and almost as if she had spoken aloud, his eyes flew open and he whispered "Hey." The rest is a blur ("I can't walk." "You can. Get up, goddamn it, get UP!" and when words wouldn't work any more, a couple of well-placed kicks did the trick.)

"Found a piano," he says, without turning, and she falls fast back into the present. Cursing herself, for he must have been aware all along of her presence. And he turns and aims his smile straight at her, and it is tantalizing, the contrast between the white flash and the detached, calculating look in the blue eyes. Not unfamiliar to the _finesses _of seduction herself -labelled 'use whatever you've got to your convenience'- she recognizes it for what it is: a tactic. But knowing it is a tactic doesn't make her immune. Biting her lip, she closes the distance between them.

Kurtis holds his breath. She is, doubtless, the loveliest woman he's ever come across. It reminds him of the moment he saw her first step into the Café Metro, scruffy and beautiful, a prey ready for the hunt, vulnerable, dangerous.

She flicks the hi-fi on, and after a short moment, the first sweet chords of Vivaldi fill the air.

"Well. Show me." She knows she's only trying to shock him, but Kurtis, like a kid eager to please, proudly pulls up his T-shirt, uncovering the angry tissue, the half-finished job of his busy dermic cells.

_How come men are always so keen on showing off their scars? But then, what else remains after blood has stopped flowing?_

She takes a seat and studies him, openly. Plenty of time for that in the hospital, but why take a close look at a dying man? Strange to see him now in front of her, his dark handsome face, the intense eyes. Paler, thinner than she remembers him, hunched over; but even his convalescent state can't conceal the muscle-packed body and its meaning. A body shaped not out of vanity, but by a hazardous life, menial work. The tendons stand out on the back of his hands. Long spatula fingers, nails painfully short. He holds himself with all the studied immobility of a predatory animal, but at this short distance, she can see he's younger than she had first thought him to be. At least that information in his passport isn't forgery. The discovery startles but satisfies her too, as if this detail could provide her with the tiniest, tiniest of advantages.

"I killed Eckhardt," she tells him without preamble.

He holds her gaze levelly. His only comment is the slow nod of his head.

"I suppose that kind of ends it, then." He nods again. Lara waits. This is his cue for explanations, to mention his connection with Gunderson, ask for his weapon. He does none of those things.

Corrosive like acid, anger rises inside. She smothers it down. She can handle this. She can. All she has to do is keep the distance. A blank face. Wait.

Ignore the need to reach out, touch, make sure he's real.

So she tells him of killing Eckhardt and blowing the Sleeper to pieces with Eckhardt's glove. She does not tell him about the monster hiding behind the austere face of Joachim Karel.

One word follows the next, a neat string of pearls. Her unnecessary return to Boaz lair, his bloodied shape. _How did you find me? A little bird told me_. But he doesn't ask. He doesn't ask how she happened to wander back there, or, for that matter, why.


	6. The moth and the flame

**THE MOTH AND THE FLAME**

Kurtis turns out to be an easier guest than she could have suspected. He's witty, quick, and his voice has a somewhat soothing effect on her. Sometimes he makes her laugh. Most of the time she hardly sees him at all. God knows what he's up to, while Lara wanders like a haunted soul through the many rooms of Croft Manor.

_Like a moth to the flame. One of those foolish moths that keep fluttering around a light, can't stay away, get too close, oops, half a wing gone up in flames, what a tragedy, you try to shoo them away, two seconds later they're back at it. Heavens, so prosaic…! As if I didn't know any better…_

Voices coming from the kitchen. The two men are sitting at the table, engulfed in a thick cloud of smoke. Winston is an unusual apparition, sleeves rolled up, fluffy white hair raying out his lined face like a halo, a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth. He throws Lara a guilty look.

"Winston, I'll turn a blind eye to a bit of booze here and again, but we'll draw the line at smoking. You know what the doctor told you," she tells him, flicking the cigarette off his mouth and squashing it into the already spilling ashtray. Winston looks gloomily at the half-smoked stub. She walks on to the kitchen counter and starts filling up the kettle.

"Ouch. Does she always treat you like that?"

Winston smiles.

"Better to dance to her tune, and if only for the sake of domestic bliss." He gives Kurtis a wink, before getting up.

"Hey, we're not finished here!"

"As good as, Mr. Trent. Sir." Winston pushes his queen forwards and looks with deep satisfaction at the board. "Checkmate."

Kurtis lets out a despairing growl."Godammit. I hate this game!"

"So, do you-" Lara carefully measures the tealeaves before spooning them into her favourite teapot. She throws Winston a sideways glance, arching one inquisitive eyebrow, and the old butler lifts a hand, three fingers up. She nods with a faint smile. "I can imagine. You need brains for chess, not muscles. I'd venture poker is more the thing for you."

Kurtis smirks at her back. "Try me. That's one thing I'm good at."

"So is she," Winston warns him.

"But it must be more fun playing strip-poker with her than with you, old man."

* * *

He follows her out of the kitchen, noticing she's carrying just the one mug beside the teapot on the tray. 

"Hey, Croft! Long time no see."

"It's a big house."

"Yeah. Handy if you're trying to avoid someone."

She starts climbing the stairs without bothering to look at him. "I'm busy, and I'm not much of a socialite. Hope you are enjoying your stay, though."

"The service is great. A pity the hostess lets herself rarely be seen."

No reply. Kurtis shakes his head at her retreating silhouette.

* * *

She's been avoiding him all right. She sinks even deeper into the armchair, boot tapping nervously against the bookcase where she's resting her feet. Pulling up her right pants leg, she inspects her newest acquisition, a two inches long scrape on her shin. Absentmindedly she starts picking at the scab. 

_But then, playing with fire is one of my specialities. Or with sharp objects. As a little girl I was forever stealing the kitchen's carving knifes. You tell me about psychotic children.

* * *

_

So this is not what you'd call foreboding. She's been secretly congratulating herself on the speed her feet have gained. It feels like she's going to take off any moment. Then, she skids on a sharp turn of the maze and crashes into him, head connecting hard with something tough, a collarbone, or maybe an elbow. The fury of the impact sends them both flying in opposite directions.

"Misss Crroft!" he pants, when he's half managed to regain his speech. "You aarr poseteevely Amazonian!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, sneaking up on me like that?" she hisses breathlessly, decided not to bite the hook.

"Me? Nothin'." He props himself up on his elbows. He is looking quite surprised, but it doesn't last long. One look at her flushed face and there it is, that smug grin again, plastered all over his face. "I was wondering if I'd run into the Minotaur, and guess what, next thing he just charges into me, like a…Minotaur."

"Last time I looked, I still hadn't grown a bull's head," she retorts, but her hand goes up unconsciously to her face to check again. For some reason, this makes her mad as hell. She wonders briefly if she ought to punch him, now, while he's not expecting it. She starts scrambling awkwardly to her feet. He gets up as well, still grinning.

"Your head is fine. But that thing growing on your forehead is certainly starting to look like a horn."

_Punch him, like hell. That would be an act of charity._

He can feel the woman fuming, and loving it. She's gonna lash out any moment, bet on it.

He stretches his arms, flexing powerful knuckles just below her pretty nose. Asking himself dreamily if she is one of the scratching sort.

Wishful thinking. Before he's had time to remember how fast she is, she sends him back to the ground with a mighty kick, knocking all the air out of his sorry lungs.

"Amusing yourself well, Mr. Trent?" she asks sweetly.

He shakes his head slowly at her, trying to clear his vision. Making a bad attempt at faking a boredom he's far from feeling, he says:"You are soo predictable, Lara…"

"Am I? Funny you didn't predict _that _one coming."

They stare at each other. Then, she kicks some dirt at him, before offering her hand, ready to pull him up.

"Aarrgh! Come on, Kurtis."

He pulls her down instead, making her lose her balance and topple heavily on him. There's worse ways of falling. Why fight.

It lasts less than a second. Lips brushing so briefly that the moment is over before it really happens. Like kissing mist.

"Let go of me, Kurtis," she tells him, very much aware of the way his fingers are holding up her wrist, thumb pressed lightly on the delicate mound where her life pulsates. He obeys. She can feel his eyes burning holes into her back as she gets up. Better ignore him. Sighing, Kurtis makes himself comfortable on the ground.

"Where's the problem? I'd love to know."

Turning, she gives him a long stare.

"Right," she says suddenly, stepping closer–and this causes him to flinch a little in spite of himself-and ticking her fingers. "First of all, because I'd rather be the one deciding When, Where and Who with. Besides, there's the fact that I loathe being locked in small places, like airlocks and such. Claustrophobia is just what you need in this game, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I know. Got a few terrors of my own, myself."

"Then, there is that older issue of you stealing my painting."

"I thought that was what the kicks were for…"

"Oh, they helped a bit. But you just keep coming for more."

"It's not exactly a kick that I'm after, Croft."

She considers kicking him in the kidneys. Her position is advantageous. But something he said is distracting her.

"Like?"

"Like what?"

"Which terrors?"

"Mmh. Heights?" he offers.

"Sure. No cure for vertigo like somersaulting from a second story down. Backwards."

"Things in the dark, then. Under my bed."

"Truly terrifying."

"Ookaay. Insects that sting. You."

"Are you calling me an insect, Kurtis?"

"Hey, no. Just including you in the list. Terrified of you, I mean."

She looms over him like some kind of avenging angel. With a pang he realizes that this is serious.

"And you're dead right to be, Trent.You get too close, I'll rearrange your face. Got it?"

He is surprised by her violence. "OK, OK. Hey. Take it easy."

"Come on."

_So, here is the problem: I am a claustrophobic maniac with a license to carry weapons and way too much money. And he is… well, WHAT is he? Something like a Neanderthal suffering from vertigo. Definitely too much testosterone here. Nothing good can come out of it._

Suddenly her annoyance is replaced by a rush of deep unhappiness.

_Like a moth to the flame…oh, dear._

She swallows it down. "Why don't you try the pool next? A refreshing experience."


	7. Rules

**RULES**

Lying face down on the diving board, watching the waterdrops slowly trickle down from his hair into the pool, Kurtis broods over the weird pattern many of his _intermezzos _seem to follow. Like say, every time he gets injured, a kindred soul is likely to appear out of the blue to tend, mother him, nurse him back to health. The fact that most of these kindred souls belong to the female gender doesn't strike him as odd. Women are like this, at least around him. One wide, blue-eyed gaze, a lopsided smile, it doesn't take more. They simply love to find themselves in the Florence Nightingale role.

Not that he dislikes it. The fussing and fretting. The adoring looks. The steaming cups of homemade broth. A man needs a break here and then, after all. But, come to think about it, that may be one of the reasons he's always getting himself so easily hurted. Maybe it's just a sort of thwarted masochism. He wouldn't put that past himself. You never know what kind of twisted tricks your mind is likely to play on you. Ask Doctor Freud.

The tactic of taking away something of his, thus making him follow, isn't a new one either. Of course, not one of the kindred souls has left him a plane ticket before. Usually, when he gets a plane ticket to somewhere, it means something entirely different. Business, like. And more often that he'd care to admit, the prelude to the getting-injured bit. His bad luck is a chronic disease.

He gets up and collects his clothes. Been a refreshing experience all right. Spotting that switch behind the diving board certainly helped to improve his mood.

What is really puzzling him, is her reluctance to return his toy. Didn't take him more than five minutes of far-see to locate it. No problem. He has even toyed with the idea of blasting the stupid door open, but then, a part of him has been hoping all along that she'd give in, hand it back. Only the crazy woman is showing no sign that she intends to. No sign that she intends to follow a pattern whatsoever. He's tried everything he can think of, short of sneaking naked into her bed, and the novelty of being kicked around is wearing off rapidly. Thwarted masochism or not, maybe not even Croft is worth getting skewered by a screeching, oversized bee.

As if on clue, Boaz _souvenir_ starts itching madly. Fuck that. Her not playing by the rules, fine with him. Rules suck, anyway.

He reaches out and presses the switch.

**CROFT MANOR'S RULE NO. 1: This is all about causes and consequences. You don't care about the cause, but are uncertain about the consequence, proceed to:**

**CROFT MANOR'S RULE NO. 2: Do not mess around with switches.**

* * *

Lara sits up with a start. Knuckles turn white over the ice bag she's been clutching to her forehead. It doesn't take her more than a second to identify the noise she's heard. It's her house. Her fortress. And that sound, that sound, is the oak panel downstairs, moving. Finally.

She has waited long for this to happen. She's _known_ all along that this would happen. Her hand feels under the pillow and closes over cold steel. She slides the gun into the waistband of her pants. Just as well she's wearing a tent-like old shirt.

_Fools rush in…_but he isn't one. Neither is she…_where angels fear to tread._

Crouching by the banister, she watches him stroll idly through the hall, whistling softly. She likes the feeling that for once, she's the predator. A shadow, hiding in the shadows. She wonders how long it will take him to figure out WHAT has changed here.

Long enough. She's bored to death by the time Kurtis, having spotted the removed panel, cuts off his silly whistling.

"Go. On. Kurtis." She mumbles to herself.

That's exactly what he does. He walks to the switch, pulls it and turns slowly on his feet, looking for the new surprise. Just in time to see the disguised door across the hall slamming shut.

Lara lets him try a couple of times before tiring of it. At this stage she has that panel timed so tight that some days she can't even make it herself and has to request Winston's help.

"Nobody ever told you not to go touching things in other people's houses?" she asks him coldly, brushing him aside. To his credit, he doesn't look a bit caught. He merely shrugs.

"There was no one around to ask."

With a grimace, Lara pulls the switch, rolls swiftly over and sprints across the hall. She has to dive forwards, head first, to make it. The heavy oak panel almost crushes her ankles.

She takes a couple of deep breaths. Then, she gets up and slams the switch at her side of the wall.

He enters slowly, admiring eyes scanning the shadows. A soft whistle comes out of his mouth when he discovers the improbable reptile's head presiding over the fireplace. Just like that, like you'd go and hang a stuffed stag over the mantlepiece.

"Been to Jurassic Park, Lara? That doesn't look like Bambi."

"Not quite." Her voice is free of any inflections. "You don't know what fear really is until you find yourself frolicking in the middle of a track so big it has to belong to god himself."

"Bit on the ugly side, god," says Kurtis, looking at the T-rex. It's not the T-rex that's whispering in his head, louder now. _I'm here. Free me_. He feels her moving silently behind him, in the dark. He doesn't mind the dark, although he did sometime. He's learnt since. Darkness sharpens other senses. To listen, like she is listening. Nostrils flaring, taking in the smell of the room. Cold ashes, old books, mice.

She must have done something, for suddenly the cases light up.

Precious objects floating in the blue ether. Lulled to apparent calmness by the gentle cradling, suspended in the void. A metallic voice, calling softly. _Let me out._

They both speak up at the same time.

"You weren't going to return it, were you?"

"How did you know it was here?"

None of them wants to be first to answer, but Lara has rehearsed this many times. "You didn't ask for it."

"Fine. I'm asking now." He turns slowly to face her. "I want it back."

_Oh, well, to hell with it. School break is over._ She retrieves the gun and clicks off the safety.

"Just a couple of questions first, Kurtis. Do you mind?"

_Stupid, wonderful woman. I could be banging you senseless instead of planning how to break your neck._

"Gunderson. You work for him."

"I'm more of a free lancer," he answers flatly.

"But you gave him that painting. At the Louvre. You must have. They wouldn't have taken it and let you live."

"I didn't give it up voluntarily, if that's what you're hinting at. I deal. I like dealing."

"And Gunderson is, of course, someone you like dealing with. He, like you, just the odd-job-guy?"

He runs his hand through his hair. "I think he'd like that. Definitely. Makes him sound like a, dunno, a plumber."

"I'll take that as a Yes. And guess what, Kurtis. He was not employed by Eckhardt."

"Oh man, Croft. Why do you want me to tell you what you already know?

Lara snorts. "Risky business assuming I'd trade the fifth painting for your life."

"But you did, didn't you."

"So why fight Boaz in my place?"

"Kinda happens when you stick to the wrong friends. I wasn't planning to get almost killed, though."

"Surely not. Aren't you a lucky bastard that I went back for you?"

"Indeed. Gunderson wouldn't have tried so hard to get me to a hospital."

"So, if Gunderson is just the plumber on duty, who is then the fifth Cabal member? There must be five. Three are dead. One could be, or not. That still leaves me missing one. The master of puppets?"

He isn't answering this one. Instead, he's eyeing her with cold curiosity. Not a bit worried.

His lack of reaction spurns Lara further. She knows she has to keep a cool head, but his blank face, the coldness in those eyes are creepily filling her with dread.

"Who are you?" –and it comes out in almost a whisper.

He lifts his arm, causing her index twitch on the trigger. Keeping his eyes steady on hers, he raps lightly with his knuckles against the glass case, where his blade is lazily spinning in bluish oblivion.

"This belongs to me, Croft. Give it back and I'll be off. Nothing to fear from me."

"Oh, I know that. It's not like you're the first slimy bastard to run across my way. It's just that, like our mutual friend, Mr. Karel, I don't like loose ends. You are a loose end, Kurtis."

"Why? Because you can't figure me out?"

"I _have_ figured you out. You thought you could pull one on me. Like get a good shag before you killed me."

He grins a little. "Better than the other way round, dontcha think?"

The Chirugai is wide awake now, clicking softly against its blue prison walls. It's an unnerving sound. It makes her want to just apply some pressure on her finger, BOOM, blow out his damned face. His blank face.

"You are not being cooperative, Trent."

"I don't like answering questions at gun-point. Maybe if you put that down…"

"That would suit you fine, wouldn't it. Big No No here. I don't like being taken for a fool."

"Aaw, well…" he sighs. "Who does? Shit happens."

Lara's eyes dart to the Chirugai, which is banging fiercely against the glass now, in a frenzy of sparks.

"Stop it! Now! It just can't get out. That's bullet-proof glass, in case you haven't figured out already."

She's not finished talking as the whole case is ripped off its pedestal by an invisible force, exploding in a firework of sparks and glass shreds. A strangled cry escapes her mouth, arms shooting instinctively upwards to shield head and brain, body rolling up, preparing for the oncoming pain.


	8. About the hardships of claustrophobia

**A/N: I deleted -such an idiot- all the acknowledgments I had written for you, kind, lovely reviewers. You've read them anyway. But I still want to state that this chapter is dedicated to the Odd-little-turtle, for being a bad singer. ;-)

* * *

**

**ABOUT THE HARDSHIPS OF BEING A CLAUSTROPHOBIC**

He's on her like a flash, knocking the gun out of her risen hand with such force that she thinks her wrist will snap. His fist closes over her wrist and pulls hard, twirling her round like in a parody of a rock 'n' roll figure, twisting her arm up her back and forcing her to double over while he makes to grab the gun that has so practically skidded over the floor to meet his feet. It all happens so fast, that she barely manages a short squeak, more enraged than surprised, before she finds herself pinned to his chest with _her_ _own_ gun shoved hard into her neck.

_This is getting really old. Either you are pointing a gun at somebody, or somebody is pointing it at you. But if he dares to start fumbling, I'll kick the living shite out of him. Before I kill him, that is._

But haven't they been through this a couple of months ago? And is the gun in her neck really necessary, what with that hissing thing that's sputtering flames inches away from her face, that sodding thing that couldn't be bothered with doing as much as stirring for her, not after he fell into a coma...!

"Now, Croft. I never meant to harm you, but it truly looks like you just can't keep out of harm's way…" he speaks against her ear, his voice low and controlled, but his breath coming in short, ragged pants, denoting he was really tense after all, despite all the apparent calmness before. But he took a chance, and he took it well, and the situation's been reversed.

Lara, eyes turned to slits, furiously biting her bottom lip, says quietly, "I saved your life. I brought you into this house. At some stage I even trusted you."

"Not to mention settling the hospital bill…" he replies, shaking his head in mock regret. "You can't trust anybody these days, can you? Wicked, wicked world."

"Let her go!" a voice croaks behind them.

Kurtis spins around, tearing at Lara's arm so badly that she gasps. Winston is standing by the door, squinting into the dark and aiming at them with his old rifle. Her eyes widen.

_Here's the deal: it's either a bullet in the head-mind you, at least it's my own bullet!- or Winston's in the gut. So much for multiple choice_.

"Don't, Winston," she begs, somewhat terrified. She certainly appreciates him trying to help, but he's eighty, for heaven's sake, and he has a heart condition and a poor sight. Old fool won't wear glasses for the sake of his life.

Which could almost amount to:

**CROFT MANOR'S RULE NO. 3** **Do not kid yourself into believing you are in command. The butler runs this place.**

"Put that gun down, Pops, or you'll be picking bits of her brains off the rug."

"Mr. Trent, Sir. A 45 ACP, close range. Just a little hole. Now, this old girl here," Winston says, rather matter-of-factly, "is a different story altogether. If I shoot you with this, I'll be _hoovering_ your brains. Washing the walls as well, which are in dire need of a good scrub, anyway. Sir."

Lara frowns at her butler. She's quite used to his pompous ways, but there's not a chance in hell that he'll hit the right target. Not that he would ever admit being a poor shot, the stubborn old mule. She should definitely have confiscated that rifle ages ago. But it's hard to concentrate while doubled over and your arm up your back screaming in pain. And the sight of her butler waving his 1939 relic is, well, disturbing to say the least.

"Don't, Win. It's all right. We were only having a little argument," she pleads. Noticing she's sounding kind of squeaky, she tries to put some authority in her voice. "I mean it, Winston. Put that thing down."

"Now, that's more like it. Good boy," Kurtis drawls, as a very reluctant Winston lowers his gun, which, Lara suspects, might not be at all because of her telling him so, but more for the menacing way Trent's frisbee is gone to hover over the old butler's head.

Kurtis gives her a slight push, signalling her to move forwards. She decides to play meek for the moment, she's no need for a dislocated shoulder right now, but when she realizes where they're heading, tailed by a somewhat hand-wringing Winston, she starts kicking wildly, gun to her neck or not.

"Oh, come on, Lara. Don't be so melodramatic. I'll let you out when you've cooled off a bit," he says, pushing her into the fridge and slamming the door shut behind her.

**CROFT MANOR'S RULE NO. 4** **Not all switches are placed on the right side of the wall. ****Signed, Winston.

* * *

**

...but it's all been her fault, of course. Why on earth did she have to tell him about "Young bad Lara and her butler's Adventures" in all its colourful detail?

_They say wisdom comes with age, but sometimes it just won't._

Soon fed up with jumping up and down, she starts thumping the pieces of meat. It just doesn't feel the same. They're icy and unforgiving. Knuckles protest. No fun hitting dead flesh.

She's gone over to singing at the top of her lungs, flapping her arms, by the time the door opens again.

**_Ti soffoca il sangue?_** **_E ucciso da una donna!_**

_**M'hai assai torturata!**_

_**Odi tu ancora? Parla!**_

**_Guardarmi! Son Tosca! O Scarp…_**

"Jesus, Croft, you're some lousy singer! Next time you wanna knock me off my feet, try singing."

He's leaning casually against the counter, but he's not fooling her. At least, the gun he's pointing at her isn't.

She stares hard at him. He waves the gun lightly, pointing to the stairs.

"Where's Winston?"

"Watching the TV. Not a bother on him."

"He's eighty, for Heaven's sake, and probably worried to death!"

"No shit! Sly old devil told me he was seventy three!"

"If he gets a heart attack because of this, I'll kill you, Trent!"

"That's fine with me, doll. You're gonna kill me anyway."

Damn him. She can tell by his voice he's laughing.

She's pushed violently on top of her bed, and before she's gathered herself, he has her right hand neatly handcuffed to the bedpost.

_I know these 'cuffs. I KNOW these 'cuffs!_

She hasn't been in the freezer long enough for him to do a thorough search, has she? What, with the eighty three rooms, plus all the tricky switches? No way! But she's deeply annoyed by the fact that he must have checked her bedside table for a start. God, he must think she's hot on bondage. She can even picture his amused face on finding the handcuffs... No, this must be one of her bad trips. This is all happening in her very own house. Delivered by the same guy she had thought to trap. Every pot has a lid that'll fit, isn't that so? She has the unpleasant suspicion that she's just found hers.

Lara shakes her head forcefully.

Tiger eyes, assessing his every movement.

"OK. You can ask now," he sighs, pulling up a chair, and making a big show of placing the gun on the floor. "Make it short, though. I must be on my way."

"Are you a pawn?"

"A pawn? Aah, see what you mean. A pawn, yeah. Not bad. So?"

"And you just don't care what the game's about? Not understanding the pattern behind the game?"

"Does the knight or the tower understand what the game is about? The queen herself?"

"No. The player does, though. Who is he, Kurtis?"

"Why should you care? Consider yourself a pawn that's fallen out of the chessboard. It's over. Why don't you just relax and enjoy all this?" An ample flourish, meaning everything around her. Hell, he wishes he had her luck, after all.

"I just can't. Curiosity is my life."

"Curiosity killed the cat…"

"I saw him. I saw the Sleeper, and it was dead, and then He showed himself to me!" Urgency in her voice, now. Time's running out quickly, but she's seeing the tiny flash of understanding far back, dawning slowly.

"He had your face," she adds…

"Mmh. That so?" he looks faintly interested. Impatient, as well. Already gone.

_Work harder, you pitiful sorry waste of a brain!_

"This guy, Joachim Karel. He was the real monster. He was...he kept changing shapes. He was you, and he was some bloke I had met in Paris, and he was that moron of a reporter who had nothing better to do than hang around waiting for his big story!" she hesitates, before she blurts out, "He tried to seduce me!"

"Aaw. Can't really blame him," he laughs, but it dies as fast as it started. He leans forwards, scrutinizing her face. "You get a lot more talkative when you're tied up, Lara."

"Piss off! Don't you understand? He isn't dead! That thing killed my father! He ripped his guts out in front of my face! Do you think I can let him go just like that?"

"Now, wait a minute. So you saw him and he was ugly, huh? Hard luck. Hey, I've seen my share of ugly as well, believe me. 'Specially after you shutting off the electricity at the Strahov."

"An old story."

"Right, I should be getting over it. Like you with the damn painting. Let bygones be bygones."

"That was different."

"Yeah? How?"

He shakes his head.

"Look, it doesn't matter. You killed Eckhardt, you destroyed the Nephilim, and you even saved my hide, although I'd say you ain't feeling all that proud over that one. What's left there to know?"

"You're out to get him, aren't you?"

"Me?" he exclaims, trying to look innocent. "Oh, no. A pawn, that's me. I do what I'm told to. I get paid for it. That's all. And hey, sorry about your, er, father. 'Twas all on the news, you know. Back in Paris."

"What about all that Lux Veritatis crap you told me about?"

"Only a legend, Lara Croft."

"I don't believe you. You can do things. With your mind. You should be dead, damn it. A normal man couldn't have survived such a wound, much less walk to a hospital."

"Your boots are hard, woman."

He fidgets on his chair. Then, rubbing the stubble on his chin, he gives her a dubious glance. Accentuating the words, he says: "You stay out of it, OK? OKAY?"

"I know things that could be useful to you."

"You know shit."

They've both fallen into deep silence. Lara feels exhausted. When she lifts her face she sees that strange expression in Kurtis's face. Is that sympathy?

Hell, she'll be definitely NOT having sympathetic feelings from a treacherous, arrogant, pain-in-the-neck eejit like Kurtis Trent. She swings fast to her right, in a fruitless attempt to knock him off the chair. He's been careful enough to keep his distance, but the suddenness of the movement still sends him sprawling all over the floor.

"There'll be worse coming."

"Fair enough," he tells her, stirring painfully. "I see I've overstretched your hospitality, Lady Croft."

"Wait!"

"It's been a delightful time. Shall I tell your butler to wait on you on my way out?"

Leaning closer, grinning openly.

"I'd kiss your hand, milady, but to be honest, I'm a bit concerned with what your _other_ hand might do."

She can feel his breath on her cheek. Calm. Warm.

"Are you one of the scratchy sort, Lara?"

_Fancy that. I must disappoint you._

"Not me, Trent. I prefer bullets."

"Ah. Guessed so."

He waves her off.

"You should try a different approach, **_Tosca_**. Just a suggestion. See ya."

* * *

He can smell the sweet dampness of the English night mist rising from the slumbering moor as the miles rush by, increasing the distance between himself and the manor. He knows he's been losing precious time, he could have retrieved the glaive straight away and left. But his close brush with death, the long weeks in hospital have softened him, somehow. Although it wasn't until visiting Lara that he came to realize how desperately lonely he has been. Whatever. It's been a most pleasant little holiday. 

No regrets. If anything, only thing he regrets is the sudden, none too friendly departure. But even that isn't a _premiere_ in his life. On the other hand, not one of the kindred souls ended up pointing a gun at him, if he remembers right. It had to take Croft, the insane chick. Who else but her would spend a small fortune in having him patched up, just to blow out his head a couple of months after?

He chuckles.

_Maybe I'll pay you another visit some day, Croft. When I'm done with this._

A soft smile lingering on his lips. It's as good a plan as any, and certainly a good prospect to look forward to.

* * *

"He might have given you a sound piece of advice, Lara dear. Leave it." 

"No. Never." Winston can only see her twitching legs, as she's got her head stuffed under the bed, in a fit of frantic and very angry searching that makes him brace himself for the worst. He hears a muffled "Aah" before she crawls back out, holding a small box and covered with dust. "What an idiot!" she mutters happily, knocking the dust from the box. She sneezes violently, then sits up and eyes the box with a proud smile.

"Strange how people as a rule _never_ look in the most obvious places. But it's really dusty down there."

"He told me not to bother with cleaning his room, Lara."

"I notice. But should we run a Carbon-14 test on that filth, I'm sure some of it would date back to the days Queen Victoria was still slim. Ah well. How about we pay your niece a visit, Win?"

"She's away. Somewhere in the Canary Islands."

"Is she? Well, you can still go down to the pub and have a couple of pints with the lads, then. There's something I need to talk about with Father Patrick."

Winston sighs. It might be better than her rushing headlong after the signal that tiny device she had him attach to Trent's bike is steadily sending.

"Oh, Win, and get an electrician to drop by before we leave. We want to have that switch fixed, don't we?"

* * *

**Another A/N: That thing above was (pauses for drama) a bit of opera. Yes! I confess! I DO listen to opera! It's terrible, I know. In my defense, may I say that I listen to a lot of (hard) rock as well? Anyway, that was an aria from _Tosca_, by Giacomo Puccini. Interesting plot. The heroine is an actress who kills a bunch of people. Here's the english version for you:**

"_**Are you choking on your blood?**_

_**Murdered by a woman!**_

**_You tormented me so much! Are you listening to me?_ (or, if you prefer, _"Are you still hating?"_)**

**_Speak! Look at me! I am Tosca! Oh, Scarpia!"_ (who's the villain of the piece)**


	9. Alere flammas

**Okay. Sorry for taking so long to update. If any of you cares to go back and reread the whole thing, you'll notice it's been revised and reposted, so it's a lot nicer to read now! Anyway, here I go again…**

**Jordana Trent:** What can I say besides you're awesome and sweet and patient and great? I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy! (Throws herself on floor and humbly licks Master Karel's shoes) Maybe send you my favourite rubber duck, so you can throw it into that jacuzzi as well?

**Arakanga:** You're a love, you are. Thank you so much…

**Spitfire511: **Thanks and welcome!

**Odd little turtle:** Oh crap! Did I? Very ouchie indeed. Just do as if I hadn't. Delighted you liked it all the same!

**NFI:** Ah, what switch? Ever put Winston in the fridge? Right, he can't get out because there's no switch INSIDE the fridge! So, I thought Lara would like to have that detail fixed after experiencing herself what it feels like. I hope Winston appreciated my gesture…

**Andrea Christoph:** Hey, those were really useful reviews, and I've tried to correct the things you mentioned. And you added me to your favs! I'm not worthy! I'm NOT worthy! Me a WORM! (writhes on floor and tries to lick Master Karel's soles) And I'm still dreaming about those freckles...Ahem.

**Acid-Rush: **Kurtis' plot stood up and hit you in the face? Wow. Mean, mean plot! (hits plots fingers with a ruler) Hey, I LOVE your reviews! The one for 'Catch up' had me laughing for hours. And please, update soon Partners in crime. I LOVE LOVE LOVE that story!

**Warning! This is a Kurtis-centric chapter. No Lara here, sorry. Just bear with me and plough through. Remember when you played AoD and you found yourself saddled with Kurtis all of a sudden? I mean, I love Kurtis, I really do, but playing with him nearly drove me insane. I killed him so many times that it was almost a relief when boaz finally got him!

* * *

**

**ALERE FLAMMAS **_**To feed the flames**_

He has been to this city before, as Gunderson seems to have a liking for it. After Amsterdam, it's the place he favours the most for conducting business, and they've been dealing with each other for a long time now. He is a bit bewildered by his choice of a meeting place, as it is likely to be crowded with tourists. On the other hand, the odd Japanese taking pictures might be a welcome, if somewhat precarious safety net.

"After you, Marten."

The big man shrugs and precedes him into the small, rich church. Despite all the gold and plaster mouldings, the church is quite dark. Keeping his eyes on Marten's back, he lets himself slide into a pew on the right row. Out of the corner of his eye, he can take in the somber shadow sitting at the far end of the bench. The man's voice is mellow and melodious, like a slow trickle of poisoned honey.

"A quite fabulous little church, don't you think? A true jewel of the Rococo. Do you know what difference there is between rococo and baroque?"

"Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Rouzic. I'm afraid that I'm completely ignorant on the matter."

A young couple admiring the rich altar with repeated Oohhs and Ahhs catches his attention. She's wearing shorts and trekking boots, and although this young woman is rather short, and blondish, a brief vision glimmers before his eyes. Gunderson goes to stand so close by the couple, that he can see them exchanging nervous looks among all the Oohs and Aahs. After holding their ground bravely for a few minutes, they seem to reconsider the whole thing, and leave promptly.

"Our friend here, Mr. Gunderson, thinks highly of you, Mr. Trent. He's been telling me how helpful you could be to us. How helpful you were. Frankly, I wasn't convinced. You see, I had this gut feeling when the boys started having, mmh, difficulties, in Paris. What happened, you got tired of coconut trees, Mr. 'Trent'? Or should I call you Mr. …?"

"Karel. Where is he?"

Taking in a deep breath, Kurtis turns slowly until his questioner comes into his field of vision. He has dreaded this moment since his earliest infancy, and yet, considering the circumstances, he's acting quite calmly. With ancient fascination he looks at the pale man, whose malignant glare has haunted all and each one of his nightmares.

_But I'm a grown man now, and there's only you and me left…_

The _illusionist_ smiles.It's a hideous smile. It rejoices in its own horror. Like Hansel and Gretel's wicked witch or Cinderella's mean stepmother. The smile of the thing waiting in the dark under your bed. Shopping with his mother, barely able to walk on his own, holding for life to the precious hand in some crowded place. Lost in a forest of legs. Realizing suddenly it's NOT mummy's hand he's holding, but a stranger's. Lifting his eyes in utter horror to meet the delighted, knowing smile of his abductor…

"Oh, Karel. But his career is finished, do you see? Why not show some mercy to a wounded, tired man…?"

"Because he is not a man."

"Aahh, Mr. Trent. I understand your dilemma. It's my dilemma as well," says the man. He lifts a limp hand, as if to caress a stray ray of sunlight coming from behind the crowned head of the golden Maria floating over the altar, empty eyes turned piously upwards. "But Joachim and me, we go back a long time. Why do you think I should turn him over to you?"

"Because you're a vengeful man, Rouzic. And smart. You want to be in control, but you can't control him, so you might as well have somebody else to do the dirty work."

The man laughs softly. His hand starts airily climbing an invisible ladder of light. Up and down. Up and down.

"Last time I was sitting here, Mr. Trent, there were little toy planes flying outside, dropping bombs. The earth was shaking, the air full of smoke, and still she went on smiling. Isn't she beautiful? **_Wunderschön. Vollkommen_**."

The hand drops down. A long sigh comes from the black man. And all of a sudden he's not sitting any more at the end of the pew but right behind him. He can feel his cold breath on the back of his neck, and every hair on his body comes to stand as the man whispers dreamily…

"You don't remember me, my son? I used to know your father, Kurtis. Know him well. And your grandfather before him. They both were fine gentlemen. True knights…" he chuckles. You take after them."

Kurtis swallows hard, battling the wave of sickness that's washing over him. "Being a gentleman obviously doesn't pay. You had a pact with them, one you didn't keep."

"One I kept long enough, my son. It's so hard on the fathers. Rebellious children, they never seem to understand how important paternal advice is, until it's too late. Don't you agree? Don't you _agree_, Kurtis?"

"You can't control him. He's mine to keep."

"To keep, not to destroy."

"It's half dead, anyway. You lot drained him out of energy, trying to revive that dead hybrid. Nephilim, don't make me laugh. A heap of dusty bones since the big flood."

"Ah, boy. That was Eckhardt's doing. I was outvoted, you see. The little intrigues of democratic power. Silly men craving for domination."

"I noticed you've been keeping a low profile, so far. What do you say, shall we sort this out once and for all?"

"Like in a game? You want to come out and play, Kurtis?"

"Whatever."

"You are very likely to loose this race, my son."

"So what?…. As only the two of us are left, it won't make that big a difference."

"Oh, but it would. A _Hell_ of a difference."

Receding, he gives Kurtis an appraising look. Something resembling pride is twinkling at the back of his single pupil.

"Do you like opera, Mr. Trent?"

"Not much."

"But some friends of yours do."

He watches horrified, thoughts racing, as the dark man slowly entwines his bony fingers, as if readying for prayers.

"What do you want _her_ for!"

"_I_ don't want her. I couldn't care less about her…the point is, how badly do _you _want Karel, don't you think?" the man pauses as if lost in thought. Then, he nods slowly.

"Yesss. I think, Mr. Trent, we do actually have something we could trade. We may as well combine dull work with exquisite pleasure. I would feel honored if you would join me at **_La Fenice_** on May the fourteenth. Be my guest. I understand they've managed a beautiful piece of restoration."

Scrambling to get up on shaky legs, Kurtis starts backing away. Breathing shallowly, barely managing to hide his fear. Even in the semidarkness he can make out the five parallel scars across his face. The milky blind eye. The malicious black one, eyeing him intently.

"Sure. I'll be there."

As he's about to reach the saving light outside, the man speaks again.

"Well then. You still haven't answered my question. What is the difference between rococo and baroque?"

Kurtis presses his open palm against the smooth wood of the door, finding strange comfort in its solidity, for he's been skating dangerously close to the edge, working himself into a trance.

"Seriously? I don't like either. It's just froth."

"Ah, yes. That's right, the difference does not count. All those curlicues, only a wonderful make-believe. **_Eine wunderschöne Illusion."_**

The black man lightly taps the bench, signalling he's not finished yet. He waits patiently until he's sure he's caught Kurtis' attention. His voice is very soft, but for Kurtis, it's as if he was shrieking inside his head.

"Mortal life is such a short span, Kurtis, that children don't really have the time to grow up. The grown man is an illusion. Underneath, there's always a child. And children, you know. Some of them want to come out and play. Some are too frightened. Then, a few are frightened but they still want to come out and play. They are the best."

Kurtis bites his lip. The fear is gone, pushed into the far corner of his mind by the overwhelming force of blind rage.

"The child is dead. You took well care of that."

"Ah, yes. What remained, was the coward. Hiding until he couldn't take it anymore. Are you coming into the open, Mr. Trent? For your father, who died thinking you never would?"

"Pride before a fall, Luther. Not for my father. My father died thinking that _you_ are an illusion. But as far as I'm concerned, you are just a psycho, and that thing you're so besotted with, a bat out of hell. And hell is where I'm sending it back to. You in tow."

"We all, my hunter," laughs the man. "We all."

* * *

"Mr. Gunderson!" 

"Master Rouzic..."

"The woman will be coming soon."

"Do you want me to eliminate her?"

"No. Wait. Your friend, Trent, he will try to protect her."

"Master Rouzic, I know Trent well. He'd sell his mother if he had one."

Luther Rouzic smiles pleasantly.

_So, Bernhard. Konstantin. A handsome man he's become. Has even got your eyes. No mistaking his lineage, my kings._

"You know him, but you don't know _who _he is. I want you to organize a little welcome party for Miss Croft. And keep an eye on your man. I'm certain about this. Do not kill them yet. A theatre box all for yourself can get so very, very boring…"

* * *

Striding as fast as he can without falling into a jog, he heads for where he left his bike, making a fast recount of days and options. Feeling light-headed, dizzy, now that the rush of adrenaline is ebbing. But still exhilarated. Excited. 

_You did it. You did it. You looked at him, and you didn't run. It's in your blood. Let him choose,_ repeats his brain, like a mantra.

He wishes he could touch those shards one last time, feel their delicate weight, their smooth sharpness. He wonders what the Sanglyph feels like. Not cold, like the Chirugai, but more like something hot and pulsating. He never asked Lara. She would know. She wouldn't have told him. It probably didn't feel all that good, or she wouldn't have left it behind. She likes shiny things, doesn't she? She'll collect anything, Greek amphores and Egyptian statues, but it's the shiny things she hoards, shuts away in the darkest corners of her brick monstrosity of a home.

But someone is wanting her here. Not him, though.

_You saw him, huh? Bloody thanks, Boaz._

Rubbing the back of his neck, Kurtis thinks wearily he'd better check she's still in England, jumping from crates.

* * *

**A/N: (I can hear you screaming 'What? More author's notes!') Just this: _La fenice_ means 'The Phoenix" and is an opera house located in… ah, no, no. Can't tell you yet. But more soon…**


	10. Just a fallen angel

**To balance the last chappie, here you have one with just Lara in it. It's difficult to read, and maybe boring, but it might be important later on. And I actually enjoyed writing the priest…**

**Acid-Rush:** A plot? What's that? No, seriously, I thought I had one at some stage. Not that sure anymore. It looks like some of the characters I'm writing here just won't stick to it. We'll see what happens. And about you not having a plot before you start a story…it doesn't show (I'm inclined to think that you're just messin', but then, what would you need a plot for when you are able to write as well as you do?) Anyway, I hope you keep on reading this, because I feel that you're really following me, catching straight away all the hidden allusions and hints, and that is really gratifying.

**Odd-little-turtle:** you're right, rouzic never showed up in the game –at least, not in mine- Let's say I just liked his face. And I was tired of Karel always being the main baddie. I know it's weird, but hey, fanfiction, right? I'm afraid it'll get a lot more weirder before I finish. So, you'll have to stick to me a bit longer if you really want to find out what the heck is going on here, and then you might even come and tell ME, because I haven't got a clue either.

**Lara 'n' Kurtis:** Is Kurtis being that horrible to Lara? I wasn't really aware of that, but I've been thinking a lot about what you said, so, I'll try to answer that. I suppose we all have different ways of viewing the different characters, according to our personal experiences, perceptions or whatever. Personally, I can't imagine that a thirty-something old man, who has a past as a mercenary, would be very nicy-nicy, if you know what I mean. Nor can I envision Lara being a nice kind of person, either. So, I want them both to have an edge (am I talking English right now? I know my English isn't all that bad, but it's difficult to explain myself sometimes) Anyway, just for consolation: he'll be nicier at some stage. Or, at leat, he'll stop being so horrible to her. Soon enough, I hope.

As I'm writing this I realize that the three of you, in different ways, made me think a lot about the story, the interactions and the problems of writing. I'm really grateful for that, so let me just say: **Thanks.

* * *

**

**JUST A FALLEN ANGEL**

"You're not mad at me for not going to the funeral?" She tries to sound casual, but her voice betrays her, almost as if she is really scared to hear what his answer is going to be like. _As if I care about what judgement he's going to pass on me_. She inwardly rolls her eyes at herself.

"Of course not, child."

"I couldn't forgive him."

"That may come."

"Don't think so, but then… I know some of you had a monument erected on his grave."

"That's right. I'm sure you would like it. More than you liked yours, anyway." His voice is stern, but the flicker of amusement in his tone is giving him away. _Welcome home. Suffer the little children…_

"I should hope so," she sighs. "Not even Werner deserves such a monstrosity on his final resting place."

"It was Winston's idea."

"Of course. Who else's…"

They walk down the village's main road, the priest stopping repeatedly to chat with the passers-by.

"They're probably wondering what you're doing, strolling around with a half-naked woman."

"Aye, but then, you're English. What else can be expected of an Englishwoman?"

In the kitchen of the parochial home, Father Patrick turns on the kettle.

"Tea?"

Waiting for the water to boil, Lara looks pensively at the priest. He still holds himself very straight, and the white hair suits his paradoxically tanned -all that golfing- Irish face.

_As a young girl I used to consider him the handsomest man in the world. That would be just like me, having a crush on a Catholic priest._

She smiles, recalling past holidays spent here, trailing Patrick everywhere.

"You probably know what the **_Nephilim_** are…"

"The **_Nephilim_**? You mean the giants of Enoch's Gospel?"

"Yes. The offspring of angels and women."

"Favouring certain literature, Lara?"

"Listen! I've seen one."

"Oh. So, what did he look like?"

She rakes her brain in search of an answer. "Don't know. It was big. He…didn't look human. Actually, he looked quite dead."

"Well…" says Patrick. "Could be worse."

"The problem is, right afterwards I saw another, and this one was quite alive."

"Another **_Nephili_**?"

"He didn't look like the other one. He was… different. Old… He kept shifting shapes…" she pauses, but not for effect. In spite of the good strong tea warming her hands, her mouth has gone all pasty and dry.

"Pat, it was not a serial murderer that killed Werner, as the papers put it. It was that _thing_."

He doesn't as much as blink. Almost as if he had been expecting this.

That's one thing she likes a lot about the priest: he is not easily impressed. And he really enjoys having a conversation. And right now she is needing a bit of a brainstorming…

"…The Book of Enoch is, of course, the earliest known report about rebelling angels. It's an apocryphal text, and therefore not included in the Holy Canon."

"I've had a look at it. Reads more like a travelling guide to the Lebanese highlands."

"Oh, yes, doesn't it? Did you know that there's whole theories about Eden having been located somewhere in the region? Same theories that claim besaid angels that came down on Mount Hermon were, in fact, aliens."

"Atlanteans."

"More your speciality, I'm afraid…" laughs the priest.

Lara shakes her head, smiling. "Easy to understand why. You must admit that bit with the flaming chariot shaped as a wheel sounds like a pretty accurate description of a spaceship. Seen through Enoch's eyes, of course."

"Mmh," chuckles the priest. "God, the big computer?"

"Something like that," laughs Lara. "Tuum-tuum-tuduuumm…I didn't know you liked Kubrick."

"I may be a priest, but I still recognize a good film. The one with the maze always reminds me of Croft Manor. You know, the one where Jack Nicholson loses his marbles."

"Not much snow at Croft Manor…" she tries to picture Jack Nicholson creeping through a snow-covered labyrinth, dragging his axe behind him, but dismisses it quickly. Most likely she'd be the one dragging that axe, wild eyed and muttering _RedRum RedRum_.

She sips at her tea and looks at the priest "Tell me about the angels' fall. Forget the aliens."

"I don't know any more than you do."

"All the same. I'd like to hear it from you. You papists have such a rich imagination…" The priest raises his eyebrows. Lara buries her hot face into her mug, trying to hide her laughter.

"Heathens," sighs the priest.

"Go on. Tell me."

"Well, there are several interpretations of the so called 'fall'. In Enoch's version they appear to have been an altogether different caste of angels, the **_'Grigori'_**. Those were the ones that came down to earth and cohabited with the women, and not only that, but started teaching menfolk all kind of tricks of dubious morality, like manufacturing iron weapons, mixing perfumes …"

"…writing with ink and paper…"

"…incantations. Using make-up…"

"…the deeds of the womb. Very subtle, that one. Picture that! They were feminist angels."

"However charitable their intentions may have been, Lara, fact is they managed to breed, all this according to Enoch, a few rather ugly creatures, which started to rampage and had to be finally removed by the angels loyal to the throne. Your **_Nephilim_**."

"Ah. Was it not the deluge?"

"Right. That is, if you strictly stick to the **_Nephilim_** being hybrid, monstrous beings neither human nor angelic."

"So God pours a big bucket of water on them and they die..?"

"Along with the entire human population save Noah and all his pets."

"A lovely _tabula rasa_. And what happened to the fathers?"

"They were bound and thrown into eternal doom."

"Amen. What do you think? Could one have escaped?"

"Well, Lara. 'Tis little what Enoch reports about their actual fate. Azazel is hurled into a fiery abyss, Semjasa chained upside-down in the sky to bear eternal witness… but of course Christian faith is based on the belief that there is evil loose to tempt us. Lucifer is, if you want, a fallen one. The star of dawn, the bearer of light. The most beautiful of the angels. So, to answer your question…. Why not? But then, Enoch's is just one of the many interpretations, and I'm no theologian, I am just a parish priest."

_Oops. If that thing was indeed a fallen angel, I've blown its child to pieces._

The marred beauty of the Sleeper. Its whiteness. Its slow, expectant suffering.

And Karel's unblinking eyes. Or not Karel, but that thing hiding behind what once was a living man.Watching what?

"Who was that one chained to the sky?"

"Semjasa, I think. The constellation of Orion." He watches her forehead furrow and knows he's touched a nerve, though he doesn't have a clue which one. "What's wrong?"

"Not sure. It's only… Some think the Giza Pyramids are an inverted reflection of the three stars on Orion's belt. And at the time they were built, the vernal point of the spring equinox was on the rear paws of the Leo constellation. The Lion. On earth, the Sphynx. What did you say those angels were called?"

"_Grigori_. The Watchers."

"There you are. Those are mentioned in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, did you know that? _'Deliver me from the watchers, who possess cruel fingers, who carry murderous knives…'_" she briefly massages the bridge of her nose.

_Damn you. Damn you, old scoundrel. What did you drag me into…?_

"And who would those Watchers be?" asks the Father, interested. It's the very first time he's heard her mention Egypt since she came back, like Lazarus rising from the dead.

"Osiris. Sometimes Horus the sightless." Her voice drops half an octave. "And Seth. The Gods. Come from **_Tar-Neter_**, literally, the land of the Watchers. Shumer." She presses her fingertips against her temples. A headache is forming steadily somewhere behind her eyeballs. She feels like breaking something. As Werner is long turned into a maggots' feast, Trent's neck would do just fine. Only the rotten bastard has flown, taking with him all the answers. "God. I'm in trouble."

"I'm sure God wouldn't mind lending you a hand if you weren't using his holy name just for rhetorical purposes. Mind that mug, I'm really fond of it."

Lara laughs in spite of herself and looks at the mug. 'Guinness is good for you'. _Dear God_. _Bless him_. She carefully replaces it on the table and picks Patrick's battered copy of the Apocrypha instead. Without looking at him, she teases, "And if I found my way into the arms of the only true church, I gather."

"Would probably help."

"Ah, no, Pat. Please. I'm a big fan of birth control and sex before marriage. And I use tons of makeup. And about the iron weapons, well, you know…" she shakes her head, still laughing. The priest smiles.

"It's good to see you laughing again, Lara."

"It's either that or cut my veins."

"Lara!" the priest exclaims, crossing himself.

"Come on. You know I don't mean it."

"Winston says you had a visitor."

"He does?" she blinks at the Father, smile vanishing. "He's getting hard to control, Patrick. I know he's old and all that, but…"

"A nice man." The priest continues, undeterred.

"Nice? He ransacked the fridge, drank half of the wine cellar, gave me a concussion, wrecked one of the display cases and ended up chaining me to the…aah. I'd better skip further details. It was wonderful, really."

"Winston seemed to like him."

"Of course. They got all chummy, those two. Tell you something…" she beckons him to lean closer… "They were _gambling_."

"Noo!" says the priest, feigning horror.

"Uh-huh." Lara props her chin up with her hand, feeling a thrill of deep satisfaction. Oh, he's going to get some lecture, the old scatter-brain. And not even from her…

"Pat, remember the bestiarium? The power of names?"

"How could I forget… But Lara, Enoch speaks of two hundred **_Beney Ha'Elohim_**, Watchers or Children of God."

"Semjasa, Urakib, Arameel, Asasel, Tamiel, Arasjal… I don't think he names them all, you're right. Ah, well, I'll think of something…"

Putting the book aside, Lara looks through the lace-curtained windows at Father Patrick's back garden. The night air is carrying the sound of voices and singing from the nearby pub, where Winston is likely to be finishing his third pint and ruining her reputation.

"Can I use your phone?"

"Here," says the priest, handing her his cellphone. "It's about time you got yourself one of these, child."

"I did already, didn't I tell you? This man that came to, er, _clean _Werner's flat…", she hesitates, a bit reluctant to add another killed man to the list of her numerous sins. "He, well, sort of left it behind. I just forgot to bring it with me." Just in case he decides questioning her further, she adds rapidly. "Got anything stronger than tea, Pat?"

"Sherry?"

"Ah, no. How about some of that grand auld Black Bush you keep behind the sofa?"

* * *

"Jurij? It's me again. I need to talk to your 'friend'. The one from Prague."

"Huh? It's not that easy, you know? Why not greet first, Larissa?"

"It's important!"

He sighs. Must be, if she's not even noticing what he's just called her. "He's in Germany."

"I know that."

"I'll arrange something."

"_Spaseeba_, Zhivago."

* * *

**A/N: Oh, I just can't resist those! Everything I mentioned here (the watchers, their mixing with humans, and of course, the deluge, are recurrent myths in all cultures, from shumerian, egyptian and akkadian to the indigenous south-american ones. Strange, isn't it?. And Kubrick, that's Stanley Kubrick, not long ago deceased film-director of -among others- '2001' (that's why Lara hums the first tacts of that film's music theme, _'Also sprach Zaratustra'_ - an ancient film, by the way, but one that is the mother of all science-fiction films, if you ask me, and well worth watching it) and 'The Shining', featuring Jack Nicholson. Jesus, I'm such a show-off!**


	11. A refreshing experience

**Odd-little-turtle:** Where do I get the weird stuff? Hum. Internet (thank god for search-engines), books… I own a copy of the Apocrypha myself. And I'm a bit of an expert regarding the history of the Crusades and the different military orders like the Knights Templars and so on, which was what caught my attention in the first place when I played AoD (the Lux Veritatis, ecc.) 

**Lara-n-Kurtis:** Yeah, that was me (Kurkubain /Kurt Cobain) I used to love Nirvana. I still love Foo Fighters.

**Acid-Rush:** Thanks for the compliments. I hope you'll like this chapter. As you said before, I'm trying to break from the heavy symbolic writing here and again, so this is another attempt.

* * *

**A REFRESHING EXPERIENCE **

He's called "The Weasel", unsurprisingly so, since he really resembles one.

"Kamarovsky says you pay well."

A smirk appears on the beautiful, disdainful mouth.

"I'm looking for Trent."

"So I hear. Haven't seen him since I knocked him out cold at the Louvre."

"There's quite a lot of money in here…" she tells him seductively, pushing slightly aside her long leather coat to reveal a well-padded envelope. And the weapon.

The Weasel eyes the woman, clearly interested.

"Is that so? Looks like there's a lot more than money in there…"

"Oh, you noticed." She smiles with false sweetness and lets the coat close again.

The man glances nervously around him.

"Listen, Miss…"

"Croft."

"Right. I know who you are. I could get into serious trouble here. I'm only doing this because Jurij Alexej is an old friend of mine and…"

"…You owe him a couple of favours and you don't want him to get cross. Just spit it out. Where is Trent?"

"He had a date with Gunderson this afternoon. At the **_Asamkirche._** Don't know what he did after, but I heard he's staying at…"

She is glad she's been standing where the shadows are the deepest when she hears the unmistakable sound of an automatic with a silencer break the silence of the park. Instantly, she throws herself down, all senses shrieking alarm while she scans the shadows. She feels more than hears the soft thump of the Weasel's body as it hits the ground.

_A clean job. Good I never got around to give him that money. I would have to buy a new Monopoly set._

She crawls to the nearest tree, and kneeling, pulls out her guns.Listening intently.

The traffic in the nearby avenue. The mysterious cacophony of cities. The rustling trees.

She can make out dim shadows detaching themselves from the deeper blackness, coming closer. How many?

Without hesitating, Lara turns and runs.

Runs for the light of the avenue, but realizes fast they are cutting her up from that side. She promptly changes direction and runs down the hill, to where the shadows are thicker and darker.

With such speed that she almost goes headfirst into the river when the invisible path she is following ends abruptly at the torrent. In the melancholic light of the street lanterns she feels like a dazzled rabbit. Water splashes, as another bullet hits the river.

"Oh, great. Where now?"

To her right, the path by the river fades into a dark cavern. A wide bridge, high above her head. To the right it is, then.

She crashes violently against something in the dark, something that lets out a surprised grunt. Whatever. She has no time right now to mind about some poor homeless chap she has so ungently awakened from its wine stupor. She turns and starts firing.

When the guy that's following the closest utters a short gurgling cry, before choking on his own blood, the others back off again into the shadows. Lara pulls herself closer to the wall, panting. She can feel the human presence close, but as it's showing no signs of interfering, she supposes her mysterious companion won't be much of a bother.

"Just keep quiet, OK? I shall be gone in a minute," she whispers to reassure him.

Here they come again, the stupid gits. In the dim light outside, they're easier targets than the wooden ones in her garden.

She fires wildly, exhilarated, shots briefly lighting the damp wall, the odd graffiti, until she hears the soft click of the empty magazine. Searching quickly for a new one.

Something heavy slams into her, pushing her against the wall. Then, she hears the distinctive roar of a big caliber weapon, deafening in this small space.

"Hiya, Croft. Kill me later, OK? There's at least five more out there…"

She fires a single shot in the direction of the voice. He can feel the soft hush of the bullet scraping his temple.

"Aahw FUUCK!"

"Agreed," she hisses, legging it for the far end of the tunnel.

Stopping dead on her tracks when she sees more shadows appearing at the end of the passage.

Kurtis grabs her arm in the dark. "Fancy a refreshing experience?"

* * *

The black water takes them eagerly into its icy bosom, closing liquid arms over their heads.

_Hell, it's freezing. This river must be carrying bloody ice cubes._

Fighting for air, she struggles back to the surface. The current is strong, plenty of melted snow finding its way down from the mountains. She has no idea of where she is. Leather coat proving not-to-practical for swimming purposes. She is fairly sure she's going to drown when her boots kick ground under them. Somehow she manages to crawl out on a pebble-covered riverbank. He is nowhere to be seen.

_I bet the bastard would even drown if only to deny me the pleasure of killing him myself!_

But the river is more generous. Here he comes, coughing and spitting water. Music in her ears.

"This way," he tells her, rushing past her.

They run in the dark. Twice she stumbles over something. What? Stones, roots?

She hasn't the faintest idea where they are. Unknown streets. She has lost him again.

"Over here!"

His eyes dart past her, scanning the shadows. Face tinted faintly orange by the street lights.

"It's always running with you!" she hisses lowly.

"I'm still faster."

"Only in a short sprint. Listen to yourself! You're going to drop dead any minute, by the way you're panting."

"Nicotine deprivation." He coughs, trying to kick the bike into gear. Seeing that she isn't moving, he snarls at her.

"What are you waiting for? A formal invitation in a gold-rimmed card? Hop on!"

"Forget it. I'll take a taxi."

"Soaked like that? Good luck!"

The bike roars, swerving dangerously at the first street turn. Lara grabs a handful of soaked fabric. Presses herself against him. The cold…

"Where are your things?" he shouts over his shoulder.

"Pardon?"

"Your things! Your clothes! You'll catch your death if you don't change into something dry soon."

"How touching. All I brought is in my backpack."

"Travelling light, ain't you…"

"There's always Visa…"

"Sure. At ten p.m."

The ride takes hours. Or maybe minutes. Chilly wind, drenched clothes. Even her brain is shivering from the cold. And he must be turning into an icicle. The thought warms her up a little.

He pulls the bike by the curb on a side street, swinging himself off. Around the corner she can make out the blue logo of a Holiday Inn. The man really doesn't have a taste to speak of.

"Wait here. Twenty minutes. If I'm not back by then, run."

"Run _where_!"

"If I'm not back, it'll hardly be my problem."

As she watches him run away, Lara thinks angrily that he could at least have left her the ignition key.

* * *

He reappears carrying his bag, throwing something soft her way.

"There. Put that on."

Lara looks at the clothes in her hands, a blackish sweater and a pair of none-too-clean looking jeans. He's already changed, and his pants look certainly clean. Grinding her teeth, she orders:

"Turn around."

He does, making a helpless, exasperated gesture. "Getting a look at your panties is the last of my worries right now. But suit yourself."

Checking that the street is still deserted, she wriggles out of her soaked garments. "Where are we going?"

"Outta here for a start. Get moving."

* * *

About an hour later they stop at a motel by the **_Autobahn_**. She's hardly surprised as he pulls out of his bag a bunch of passports, flicking quick through them until finding a satisfactory choice. He looks warningly at her.

"I'll handle this, OK?"

"I can't wait," she replies, folding her arms.

Unaffected by her sarcasm, he strides into the registration office.


	12. Mr & Mrs Smith

**Well, this turned into a very long chapter. I thought of splitting it into two, but decided against it. It's mostly dialogue, anyway. I'd love to hear your opinion.**

**Jordy!** Again: I'm not worthy! I'm NOT worthy! Still, thanks for such great review. Yeah, and Lara is still VERY pissed off at Werner. I don't know what other people think, but my first thought when I finished AoD and Werner said to Karel "too dangerous for me, but she'll be able" was: You too, Werner? You useless piece of dross! So, Werner is an issue here, sure!

**Lara 'n' Kurtis:** Thanks! Really liked your review! And yes, 'Autobahn' is the german version of an English motorway, and don't ask why I left it in german, probably to show off.

**NFI:** What could you've turned into? Mmh. An Icicle? Glad that you're refreshed and reviewing again! Hope the fluff doesn't put you off! And I couldn't update sooner: I was too busy clapping.

**Ellethiel:** A nice name you have there, sort of angelic... Thanks for the wonderful review, and yeah, you got it right, that's what Lara's feeling, and that's why everyone's acting so weird, I think...

**Cityofangels:** More angels here, wow, exactly what an angel-obsessed person like me needs... thanks! I like your story too.

**

* * *

**

**12. MR. & MRS. SMITH**

"Mrs. Smith? Mrs. _Smith?_!"

"You don't like it, go and get yourself a room for Lady Croft. See how long they take to find you…"

"Lady Croft would prefer classier accommodation." Her eyes survey the room, just a plain, impersonal looking motel-room.

"Right. But Mrs. Smith doesn't mind that Mr. Smith is first for a hot shower," he deadpans, closing the door of the bathroom behind him.

"You are starting your married life with the wrong assumptions!" shouts Lara through the closed door.

* * *

After her own long scalding shower, she has no choice but to put his not-too-clean clothes back on. Wrapping the wet towel turban-like around her head, she goes back into the room to find Kurtis half seated on the bed, legs stretched comfortably before him, wearing only his pants and eyes fixed on the TV. Unable to stop her treacherous eyes from wandering longingly over his muscled chest, she turns and starts draping her wet clothes over the radiator. It's hardly working, and she doubts her things will be dry by the morning. Strangely enough, the room feels quite hot. 

Kurtis points at some beers by the TV. She helps herself to one, takes a big gulp and turns to face him.

"Turn that off. We've got to talk."

"Tomorrow. I'm shattered."

"Now," she tells him, reaching for the remote control and switching the TV off.

"You are the most irritating person I've ever come across…"

"It's a mutual feeling, you know. But as I am going to kill you, anyway…"

"You'll be wanting to put your name on that list, then. Gunderson would be appalled if I gave you firsts."

"And to please me, you've gone and spoiled his fun. I must say, Kurtis, you should start redefining your loyalties."

"Damn, Lara. I wish you'd just stop chasing me, but as you obviously won't, why don't you just gimme a break? I'm _really_ wasted. Ask whatever you wanted to know and let's go to sleep."

"How did you find me?"

"Ever heard about a thing called telephone, woman? I phoned your butler. He told me."

"He did not!"

"He DID, ok? And I promised him I'd look after you. Stop you from damaging things and so on…"

"I'm NOT amused, Kurtis. This is not funny."

"Thank God! She's understood at last!" He throws his arms up, rolling his eyes.

_If I were God, a lightning bolt would fry him on the spot._

"What does Gunderson want of me?"

"You want me to ring him and ask?" he replies, never missing a beat.

"You're a scream, really." Lara tips her head back and presses the cool bottle against her throbbing temple, thinking that, if anything, he certainly knows how to rattle her cage.

Her mind is drifting away again. She tries to focus on the picture of Karel, or that thing that called himself Karel, but even with closed eyes all she keeps seeing is the way Kurtis is sitting there, sulking at the blank TV screen.

"Have you found him? Karel?"

"You're not giving up, are you?"

"No."

"Fine. No."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No, as in No, I haven't. But I have a fair good idea of where he is. You coming along for the ride?"

"I am."

"Ok."

Lara frowns. "Ok? That's all?"

"Yeah, Ok. What else do you want?"

She shakes her head in wonder, and the towel slides to the floor. She picks it up and rubs her hair some more, still disbelieving. "I didn't think you would be so easily dissuaded."

"You're beyond hope, Lara. I'll rather have you where I can see what you're doing."

She thinks she'd better not bother with a reply. This is obviously getting her nowhere. She picks up her backpack instead and empties its contents on the floor. Sitting on her haunches she surveys the boxes of ammo and painkillers in their water-proof wrapping, the completely ruined bars of chocolate, the odd bits and ends that always seem to find a shortcut into her baggage.

"Got a comb?" One look over her shoulder and she shakes her head. "Silly question, forget it. You probably don't even own one."

"I thought women never went anywhere without a hairbrush."

"They don't. But I had a man pack my stuff."

With a scowl, he signals his holdall, and after a short rummage her triumphant hand comes out with a plastic comb. She eyes it critically against the naked bulb of the lamp, then goes and sits down heavily on the bed's edge and concentrates on the Herculean task of untangling her hair. She tugs at it mercilessly and sees him wince. Her hair is hopefully doing a good job of curtaining her grin...

"Why don't you tell me where he is?"

"What about I say the 'master of puppets' has got him?" he drawls, looking at her hands with a kind of fascination..

"Uh-huh. So there is one. His name?"

"His name is Luther Rouzic. Former librarian of the Prague Archives. Looks like he wants you dead. Happy now?"

"No."

"Will you be happier if I say that Karel obviously wants you alive? I bet he hopes you'll help him out again, as in Paris and Prague."

"Is that what I was doing? Imagine! You told me yourself to go and destroy that painting!"

"Big fuckin' deal. Never crossed your mind that if they'd have been meant to be destroyed, the Lux would have taken care of that long before you made your dramatic appearance? Yeah, that's right, the Lux. Lux-fuckin'-Veritatis, not some crappy legen…."

The comb gets stuck and when she pulls, it snaps clean.

"Aaw. You broke it!" he says accusingly.

"I'll get you a new one. Cheap rubbish." She mutters, choosing the biggest remaining half and trying again.

"You're a wrecker."

"And you are a spoiled brat, Kurtis. Get over it, it's only a comb!"

"Yeah, _my_ comb."

"Good God, how old are you? I can't believe I'm lowering myself to this!"

"Well, you know how old _I _am. You went through my papers. As for Good God..."

"Kurtis," she takes a deep breath, "let's start this again. Stop insulting my intelligence. This all would have been so much easier if you had just told me straight away that it was the Sanglyph you were looking for. Or that you were after Karel, not Eckhardt."

"Do you realize that they were watching us all along?"

"They aren't now, though. I hope so, at least," she grumbles.

This brings a light smile back to his lips. "Look, Lara. We needed Eckhardt to put it together. The device he made to dominate the creature, made of its blood, or whatever runs through its veins. If he's got veins, that is…"

"And his victims' blood."

He looks like he's about to do some ironic remark, but then seems to deflate, overcome with tiredness.

"His food." He speaks quietly. "Little else."

"All those killings...Those horrid experiments."

"And you missed the real fun part, Croft." No animosity in his words.

"Maybe. You missed the Sleeper."

"No need to remind me. I still can't believe I turned my back on Boaz, the nasty bitch. Still, true evil, it always comes from man. Seems to me..." he raises his shoulders, hands spread in a mute gesture of helplessness.

She nods. For the first time she notices that there are dark rings under his eyes. He may act like a six-year old sometimes, but his eyes tell a different story. "Is he a fallen angel?"

"I've no clue what he is. Don't care to know, either."

"Well, the Sanglyph did certainly have an impact on him, I tell you." she jokes halfheartedly. "Kurtis, I didn't have the time to take it with me. To think. I was _running_. And scared."

"You could have fooled me." he re-accommodates himself, closing his eyes.

"Do you know how to destroy him?"

"If you ever stopped nagging, I'd have a better chance to figure out." He yawns.

"So we're back to square one…" she sighs, dropping the comb and tossing back her hair.

"You know what, Lara?" he says at last, squinting at her."If you hadn't been so intent to keep my…, mmh, that toy of mine, chances are that we would had never met again. You're a magpie, that's it. A _crazy_ magpie."

"Ah, well." She stares at her hands, grinning dreamily. "…It shone so prettily…"

_It did, all right?_ She gets up and grabs her gun. Circling the bed, she makes to reach the pillow, when she catches a glimpse of his face, eyes wide with alarm. Boo, she mouths silently and slides the gun under the pillow.

After a moment, he swings his legs to the floor. Running hands through his hair, he asks warily,

"I suppose you're not interested in sharing the bed."

"Why not?" she shrugs, patting the pillow. "…looks big enough to me…" She's spoken without thinking, and for the fraction of a heartbeat, she _knows_ she's headed for serious trouble. So what. She loves serious trouble. Then, he shakes his head.

"Nah. It wouldn't work."

He is right. She ponders this briefly. Grabbing her toothbrush, she walks back to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. Legs a bit wacky. She grins at her reflection on the mirror and shouts out:

"I thought you were keenly interested in finding out if I scratch…"

She waits, toothbrush poised in mid-air. Then she sees his face peering cautiously over the doorframe.

"Come again?"

"Got any toothpaste?"

He rolls his eyes and disappears, but when he comes back, he tosses her a nearly empty tube. She squeezes some on her toothbrush and starts brushing vigorously. He lowers himself carefully on the bathtub's brim, looking at her as if he expects her to whack him over the head any moment.

_Good. Not feeling so sleepy anymore, are we?_

"Nice move, Croft. Say, you're still gonna rearrange my face if I…"

"Don't know yet." Lara rinses her mouth, then wags her toothbrush at his reflection. "I'll just let it depend on how well you perform."

"Aah. Good. Shouldn't be that hard... " But he's not sounding very convinced.

"Well then. If you're so self-confident, why aren't you scrubbing yourself up a little?" she grabs his hand and presses the toothpaste into it. His fist closes over her wrist, and Lara swallows, feeling a bit dizzy.

His thumb runs slowly up her arm and down again to her palm, stroking gently and thoughtfully.

"You might be letting yourself in for some sore disappointment." His voice lacks any strength.

"Am I?" Lara feels a short pang of apprehension. Maybe this business of trying out a different approach isn't such a good idea, after all. Someone is screaming with alarm at the back of her head. She decides she'll have to deal with that someone later. "You mean, like in 'I'll have to rearrange your face after all' kind of disappointment?"

He digs his fingers painfully into the flesh of her arm, and her heart misses a beat, but it's been thumping away rather erratically, anyway.

"Quite so, Kurtis. But that cuts both ways, you know?"

Brushing her aside, he jumps to his feet and produces a toothbrush out of nowhere. She's never seen someone to brush his teeth so quick before. Before she can think of any remark, he turns and lifts her up, hauling her over his shoulder. She squeals, ducking her head just in time to avoid bumping into the door frame. Next thing she knows, she's dropped unceremoniously on the bed, arms and legs flailing out, and she feels the mattress, which clearly hasn't been expecting this, sagging dangerously under their joint weight.

"Aaw, Lara. If _you_'_re_ so sure, what's been holding you back for so long?" He breaths against her neck "God knows I was trying hard…"

"Oh yes, don't I know that…" she gasps, mainly because he's half crushing her. "I was mad at you. Thought I'd get laid as soon as I had found back my frisbee-throwing hero, and what did I get? A bloody tea-strainer!"

"No shit!" he props himself up, a look of astonishment in his eyes. Quickly replaced by a flicker of amusement. "Gosh! I _knew_ that frisking hadn't gone down unnoticed!"

She'd laugh, but all of a sudden he pulls away. It's the last thing she's been expecting, and it takes a few seconds for what he's trying to do to sink in, this clumsy fumbling with the bedside lamp, placing it hastily on the ground and fidgeting until he gets a hold of his discarded T-shirt.

"I don't believe it! You're a romantic!" laughs Lara.

"I know." He flings the T-shirt on top of the lamp and is back as fast as he was gone. "It sucks."

"No. It's… nice… but that's going to catch fire…" she manages, a bit lost in the sensation of his lips on her neck. He groans.

"It won't."

"Don't say I didn't warn you…"

"Shut up, Lara." Making her do so in the only way he can think of.

Her last coherent thought is that he's been sort of endangering the whole enterprise, but what the hell, they are kissing at last, and the room looks actually a lot nicer, and if he feels like burning a hole into that T-shirt, there's nothing she can do about it. It's _his _T-shirt, after all.

* * *

"What is this?" She asks, when her fingers feel the slight bump, the taut skin. She's been drowsily running her fingers through his hair, delicately fingering his skull. 

He stirs very lightly in her arms but doesn't open his eyes. "A scar."

"Feels like more than one scar."

"Two scars, then."

"You're full of them."

"So are you," he answers, burrowing deeper into her.

She traces the star-shaped knot of skin, wishing she had enough energy left to just roll him over and get a good look at it. She's been memorizing him only by touch, and it feels oddly lacking. He nuzzles into the crook of her neck, and drawls:

"How about you tell me how you got the one on your right leg? Not the fresh scrape."

"Oh, that. A particularly vicious Dobermann. The one on my left tigh is quite more impressive. That was a particularly vicious _tiger_."

He utters an approving noise.

"Your turn,"she tells him softly.

"Barroom brawl. Thought I was so cool until someone whacked me over the head with a beer bottle."

"Figures. What happened after?"

"I passed out and got six stitches." After a short pause, he adds, as if it were an explanation: "The bottle was full."

"What a shocking waste. How old were you?"

"Dunno… nineteen, twenty. This one?" He runs his hand along her back, gently stroking her spine.

She shudders lightly under his touch. "Burnt myself."

"Don't tell me. Someone was using you as a… lampshade."

"Someone was throwing great balls of fire at me, and it wasn't Jerry Lee Lewis, thank you." Pulling away a bit, she taps the faint silver line under his eye. "Now, if you start humming on me, we'll have to part company, Trent. What about this one?"

"Someone with a knife and little sense of humour. We got along really well after. This?"

"An appendectomy, you idiot. Now, this one's good. This feels like a whole solar system…" she says, cradling one of his buttocks and giving it a hard squeeze. He jerks and at last his eyes open half-way. Lara gives him her brightest smile.

"Shrapnel. Not serious, but painful like fuck. Spent ages lying ass up."

"Must have been some sight."

"Boring as hell. Only thing I was up to was moaning and wondering how to get into the pants of that one cute nurse…"

"Which you managed to, eventually."

He shakes his head a little, and pulls her closer, shifting so that she's lying half on top of him. "She wasn't that cute, after all. Skinny little thing."

"Didn't keep you from fantasizing…"

"I was bored, I'm telling ya. This?" he asks, but his voice is sounding sort of blurry, as he's pressing his mouth against her slightly odd-shaped collarbone.

"An ill-fated attempt at roof climbing, in the middle of the night. Also broke my left leg."

"Ouch. I bet you ruined your pajamas as well."

She punches playfully his shoulder and he makes a halfhearted attempt to cover his head. "Hey!"

Maybe she's punched harder than she intended to. He'll survive.

She tugs at his hair and kisses his nose. "You still haven't told me how you got the other one here," she purrs, gently scratching his head.

When he doesn't answer she murmurs against his lips. "Sorry. You don't want to talk about it, do you?

He grunts and then mumbles something that sounds like 'Onut'

"What?"

"oconut."

"A coconut! From a tree?"

"No, from outer space. Of course it was from a tree."

She bursts out laughing. He covers his face with his arm, groaning. She laughs for a good while, then stops abruptly and shakes his shoulder.

"Kurtis. I smell smoke."

"No you don't."

"Kurtis, that thing's on fire."

"Aah. Will you stop?" but his arm shoots out and yanks the cord out of the socket. And then he jumps. "Sonofabitch!" looking in disbelief at his hand. "I almost got myself electrocuted!"

Lara buries her head into the pillow to muffle her screams. She wouldn't like to be the next-room-guest this specific night.

"I don't believe this!" she hears him mutter. "Every time you think you'll have one of your horniest dreams come true, it turns out it's just another _fuckin' nightmare!"_


	13. Honeymoon

**Hello again. This chapter gave me a hard time. I wrote more or less five different versions of it –and probably ended settling for the worst one, don't know… A little note here: I think I never thanked Jordana Trent properly for the awesome work she's done beta-reading Folly (not an easy task…) So, first off, Thank you, Jordy, for your enthusiasm, your commitment and encouragment, as well as for your always constructive criticism. :)**

**Still, I have this strange tendency to rewrite things on the spur of the moment, like… right now. This is to say that any mistakes you may find here are not things that managed to slip in unnoticed by her sharp eyes, but most likely my last-minute additions. (Hey, she has corrected this chapter so many times, that she probably knows it by heart now)**

**Thanks as well to Lara-is-my-rolemodel (yeah, mine too), NFI and the Odd-little-turtle for the lovely reviews.

* * *

**

**HONEYMOON**

Long eyelashes fluttering lightly, she surfaces out of a deep, pleasant slumber, in which she's been dreaming of orcas, large, silent creatures cruising the depths of her sleep, dreaming herself spinning lazily after them in a deep, quiet pond, every sound swallowed by the water. She opens her eyes still wondering half asleep about her own happiness. It can't be blood that's flowing through her veins, but some kind of heady sweet liquor. Stretching like a cat under the tangled sheets, marvelling at the blissful silence, as if she had shed, along with her clothing, all the tension of the last months… blissful silence…

_Wait. It is way too silent._

She sits up abruptly, startled by this realisation. And sure enough, no Kurtis in sight.

_The rotten son of a Lux-Veritatis! _

Her clothes are still damp, and her hair is a mess, but it's hardly the right time to be squeamish. Hell, if she wasn't thinking that she could sweet-talk him into anything after the previous night. And the blasted son of a gun just gets up and walks out on her like nothing. She'll skin him alive when she gets her hands back on him, that much is for sure. Cursing under her breath, she stuffs her scattered belongings in her backpack and runs out. A sunny day, and the parking lot is packed with cars. Quickly, she strides over to the restaurant. Grabbing a bored looking waitress, she almost shouts: "I'm looking for my… my… my…"

_Right. My what?_

"My husband!" she cries out in a bust of sudden inspiration, before it dawns on her how ridiculous it sounds. Realizing she's been babbling away in English, tries to correct herself, digging into her brain for whatever bits of German she ever managed to pick up from Werner... **"_Mein Gatte! Amerikaner!"_**

_Heavens, it sounds even worse in German…_

The waitress looks at her as if she's demented. Right, maybe she's acting a bit demented. Or maybe it's just her hairdo…

"Blue eyes! **_Blau_**!" She points at her own eyes, desperate to make herself understood.

"Ach!" says the woman, and points to a booth by the window, where Kurtis is happily going at a pile of ham and eggs of astonishing size. He is bent over his plate and shoveling food into his mouth like there's no tomorrow, but something in his demeanor tells her there's no way he could have missed her undignified appearance on stage.

Wisely, he doesn't so much as look up when she comes to stand by his side, arms ajar, eyes thunderous. Instead, he mumbles into his plate.

"I was starved."

Sliding on the seat across him, Lara tells the deadpan looking waitress: "I'll have the same, thank you."

She watches him eat in silence. Every second that ticks away reinforces her suspicion that this is just about all she'll get. Well, not that she's expecting some sort of warm welcome or anything, but… Anyhow, what are you supposed to say? Good morning, maybe? She gives it a cautious try.

"Morning."

Still, nothing. Lara has a strong urge to kick him under the table to force a reaction, any reaction. His muteness, the rebuff she senses in his whole stance is working on her nerves, making her feel flustered and embarrassed.

As the silence grows intolerable, Lara chooses the flight forwards. "Look. About last night…"

He looks up sharply, his expression unreadable.

Shifting uncomfortably on her seat, she forces herself to go on. "…you're probably wondering what prompted my sudden change of mind…"

He returns his eyes to his almost empty plate, inspects it, then spears a very greasy looking bit of ham. "Hardly. You are trying your best to be unpredictable, that's all." A quick flash of blue from under his shaggy hair, and all at once she knows he's bluffing.

He starts chewing slowly. She grins. _So, unpredictable…_

"A few days ago, I was nothing but predictable. Now, I am unpredictable. It must be some kind of hormonal disorder, what do you think?"

"Bit early for going menopausal, so it must be a clock that I'm hearing. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. How old are you, by the way?"

"Older than you, so you should be treating me with more respect."

"Yeah? How much older?"

"Four years."

"Whoa. I've been seduced by an old bag."

She cocks her head, feeling amused and annoyed at the same time. He's faking, all right.

"Sorry, _luv_. At my age you can't afford to be picky."

"Picky…?"

"You'll take anything you can get."

"Anything." He agrees.

"Ah, stop it, will you! What do you want to hear, 'My sex life had gotten somewhat unexciting'? I was sex-starved, so what. You've surely noticed that I lead the life of a nun… Hell, what am I saying? A nun has probably a lot more of a sex life than I've been having!"

Kurtis, shaking a cigarette out of the pack, interrupts her. "A nun wouldn't do half of the naughty things you were up to last night. She wouldn't even know that they can be _done_."

Is she actually blushing? Heat is creeping up her ears. "It's been purely accidental, _okay_? A once-only kind of thing."

"Fine."

Surprised, she asks, "Aren't you going to argue the point?"

"Should I?"

"Have you noticed that every time I ask you something you just answer with another question?"

"Nope. Maybe you ask too much?"

This time she can't resist. All on its own accord, her foot lunges forward, trying to connect with something, his shin, whatever, but he just moves his own leg smoothly back and she hits the table leg instead, and grimaces. His eyes are too bright, his mouth curling slowly upwards, readying for that infuriating grin that is his trademark. He carefully places the cigarette in his mouth and reaches out for the lighter, before he speaks.

"Mrs. Smith, that's some serious attitude problem you've got there. But sure, must be hard coping with such a long celibacy."

"You have no idea how long my celibacy has been!"

"Ah, well… according to Winston…"

Over the hand that is shielding the lighter, he watches her stunned expression, and adds wickedly, "Old Winston says that's the main reason causing you to act, well …kinda unbalanced…"

"Whaaat!"

The arrival of her breakfast saves her. She starts poking furiously at her eggs, telling herself it's Winston's feeble brains she's stabbing. Kurtis is grinning now like the Cheshire Cat.

_That switch in the freezer will be gone as soon as I get back, I swear…I'll rip it out with my bare hands. I'll strangle him with the wire. I'll keep him inside that fridge till Kingdom Come…_

"Oh-oh. Old fella's in deep shit now, am I right? Shoulda kept my mouth shut…"

"Should have, yes." She replies tersely, her eyes on the unappetizing mess in front of her.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist. You look kinda cute when you're all riled up."

"I look… 'Cute'?"

"You do. You get this really weird white stripe across your nose. Here, see…" he reaches out and his fingertips brush lightly her nose. The gesture is unexpected and strangely tender, but Lara recoils as if bitten by a snake.

_To think that two hours ago I was cuddling the cocky bastard. Talk about bad judgement. I should have bitten him as well…_

"Let me get this straight. You're saying that your appalling behavior is caused by an overwhelming need to admire my funny nose turning white?"

He shrugs and offers her an apologetic little smile.

"Well, you ought to see _your_ face when you are angry. You look kind of cross-eyed."

"No way!"

"Way so. It's fascinating."

"Ah now. My eyes are perfectly straight."

"Not when you're boiling up. Like now." In fact, she's having a hard time keeping a straight face. His worried expression is quite comical. Like he's trying to decide if she's serious or just trying to make him pay for the previous remarks.

"Hmm, well then. We're bound to have some very ugly children, you and me."

"We're _not_ bound to have anything of the sort, ugly or pretty. The option that I kill you can't be entirely ruled out. Especially since you insist on blowing your smoke into my face while I'm trying to eat."

He leans back on his seat and takes a deep drag of his cigarette, then blows a steady stream of smoke towards the ceiling. "Not a good basis for a marriage, huh?"

"Definitely not. So, what shall we do, Mr. Smith?" she tells him curtly, pushing away her plate. "Shall we settle for a polite, grown-up sort of divorce, then? We can claim irreconcilable differences…"

"No," he says, grinding the stub on his empty plate, which earns him a murderous look from the waitress, and pushing her plate back in front of her. "We can't miss this chance to go on a little honeymoon."

"It'd be a shame," she nods, "seeing that I seem to have missed my own wedding."

"I didn't propose, relax. I'm just…" he gestures vaguely, "…'testing' your general knowledge. So, where do newlyweds go, Lady Croft?"

"How the heck would _I_ know? No one has proposed to me, remember?"

"Come on. I'm sure even _you _dreamed at some stage of getting married…"

"Of course. When I was about seven. Before I found out men could be soo annoying…"

"Right. Let me annoy you some more. Where?"

"Helsinki?"

Kurtis puts his face in his hands, shaking his head in despair. "Jesus, Croft!"

"All right. It's Paris."

Kurtis laughs. "Ah, the city of lovers! Good try, but nope. Want another clue?"

"Why? Are you an expert in statistics now? How do you know that Paris isn't top of the pops for honeymooners?"

"Er…You think it is?"

"No idea." A new worry hits her. "You married?"

"God, no!" Kurtis exclaims, still half laughing but looking alarmed nonetheless

She shrugs. "Not Paris then."

"No."

"That's sad. I know a couple of cozy spots there"

"Sure you do. Will you answer now? Your time's running out…"

"So, it is not Paris…"

"No, and Helsinki neither. Ow, Croft, come on, you ain't playing fair. I can tell by your face you know the answer perfectly well."

"Well indeed. The _question_ was wrong. You don't start looking for the truth on the wrong premises, you see? You're just _assuming _you have the right answer, but what you know isn't supported by facts, or none that you've proven yourself, at least."

"OK! OK! Different question, then. What-city-do-you-have-to-see-before-dying?"

"Naples, you halfwit. It's actually **_'vedere Napoli e morire'._** 'To see Naples and die'."

"I give up," he moans.

Man or boy, what is he, really? One moment looking pleased as Punch, the next just giving her the wounded look of a scolded child.

She waits, but he seems to have run out of words.

"My turn to ask?"

"Be my guest."

"Ok. So why would I want to go to Venice? I've already been there, you know?"

"Thought you loved opera."

"I see. Are we going to the opera?"

"If you like…Can't guarantee we'll get to watch the whole thing through, though…"

"You're falling asleep first?"

"Considering that you hardly let me sleep at all last night, that could well happen. But it might be too loud for me to fall asleep. Or we might be too busy running…"

Leaning forward, he asks, eyes sparkling with mischief, "Have you been to **_La Fenice_**? It's got quite a remarkable story. I hear they've done a brilliant job of restoring it."

_Adorable bastard knows. Been doing his homework…_

She stares blankly at him, although one corner of her mouth is twitching madly.

"As you know," says Kurtis, wagging his finger at her in a very patronizing way, "someone burnt it to the ground in… mmhh, now, lemme see, when would THAT have been?"

"1996," her mouth blurts out before she can think of clasping her hand over it. She should kick herself. "Don't look at me like that! It was _an accident_!"

* * *

_Pick up. Pick up. What on earth is he doing?_

Kurtis knocks on the glass door of the telephone booth and signals impatiently to the wrist-watch he isn't wearing. Lara presses her hand against the door, blocking his vision.

"Pick up the bloody phone!" she shouts into the receiver.

"That I'm doing, dear."

"Good God, Winston. That took you bloody ages."

"Sorry. Never heard it ringing."

"Maybe if you turn the volume down. I can hear the TV from here, and I'm in the middle of nowhere."

"Is Mr. Trent there?"

"Right outside, having a fit. That wasn't very clever of you, Winston."

"Oh my. I was worried you might not be too pleased about it, but that boy has a gift with words… How is he, anyway?"

"Annoying, as usual," grumbles Lara, wondering what he means by 'a gift with words'. "Listen, Winston, someone's been trying to call me the whole night…"

"That'd be Father Dunstan. He says you pocketed his mobile phone."

"Apologize for me, will you? It's almost out of batteries, anyway."

"Well, dear. It's no good if you don't take the charger as well… But he isn't angry, the good father. He said to pass you a message… let me see…"

"Win, I'm running out of coins."

"Oh dear, oh dear, I can barely decipher what I wrote. It was something about a testament…"

"Solomon's?" she offers helpfully.

"No, no. Something with 'A', one of those Dead Sea Scrolls…"

"That would be Amram, then…" she stops. Her heart clenches, as if briefly squeezed by an iron fist.

_I saw Watchers in my vision, and two were fighting over me, and they said to me, which one do you choose to rule you…?_

"Read it to me, Winston." She whispers.

"I've got it now, let's see. 'I raised my eyes and looked, and one of them was terri… terrifying in his appearance, like a…'" Winston recites, painfully slowly.

"A serpent. Read the end of it, just the end. He asks his name. Oh, Win, this is fantastic! Go on, quick!"

"Wait, it's here... 'This Watcher, who is he? And he answered me…' Mary and Joseph, I think I need glasses…"

"_Mary and Jo_...? Aargh! About time you noticed! The names!"

"Here. 'And his… three names… are Belial… and Prince of Dar… darkness and the King…'"

A beep, and the line is dead. She hangs up softly and murmurs to no one. "…of Evil."

* * *

**A/N: The testament of Amram exists.It's part of the Qumran' or Dead Sea Scrolls. La Fenice is a real place as well, and it did burn down (for the second time) in 1996. But of course, it wasn't Lara...**


	14. Beauty, as close to terror

**BEAUTY, AS CLOSE TO TERROR**

Oh, this magnificent city. **_La Serenissima_**, city of red-haired **_madonnas_** and crackling plaster, besieged by tourists and shitting pigeons. Kurtis lets himself fall behind to watch the crowd parting before her like water, as if she were a winged figurehead on a vessel's prow, the proudly raised chin, her long-legged gait, the silky rope of her thick braid so close that he'd only need to reach out, wind it around his hand to make her stop, turn, look at him, and…

She halts so suddenly that he almost runs her over, blinking hard as he's catapulted out of his daydreaming.

"This ain't a good idea, Croft. This place must cost a fortune, and we're not even likely to be spending the night here…"

"This place is called the _Gritti Palace_, and yes, it costs a fortune. Don't worry, you'll love it. And we need a place to rest and get changed. You're not planning to go dressed like that to the opera, are you…?"

By the look on his face, he hasn't even considered that detail up to now.

"…so, we may as well stay somewhere _nice_, for a change."

* * *

Arms latched behind his head, he lets his eyes meander over the rich frescoed ceiling of his suite. She's had her way in more than one thing: the luxurious hotel a stone's throw away from the theater, the en-suite room –two beds, by the way, not that that detail escaped him. Two beds, like she's turned considerate all of a sudden, or shy, or God-knows-what, but hey, still one room, Hallelujah, now, if that isn't a sign… 

It could be perfect, if they had time for this –advance, retreat, the delicate dance of seduction. As if he hadn't been irremediably seduced that very first morning in _Marais_ as he was numbing himself with cheap wine and she came charging into that Café, an angry woman on the trail of something hateful.

_Boy, get a grip of yourself!_ If this woman is really aiming at seduction, she's going at it with all the subtlety of a charging tank.

He rolls himself over, trying to conjure a sleep that won't come. Across the room, the dark suit he'll be wearing tonight, courtesy of Visa and the Hotel's boutique, mocks him silently.

It could be just perfect. He is finding it far from perfect. Only a braindead jerk like himself could have thought that he could screw her and get neatly away with it. A quick romp, a clean bullet, _pronto!_ What the hell was he thinking, if he was thinking at all? But then, it was…why not admit it? It was good. Felt good. Dammit, it was fuckin' _amazing_. Hell, if pushed, he might even admit that it almost qualified as make-love-to and that he's never felt…

_Holy shit, Trent, sappy_ _bastard. You're turning into a goddam poet._

Perfect but for the fact that _he's_ the screwed one. Feeling worse than ever, and NOT because of those scratch-marks on his back…

"What is he like?" she shouts over the sound of running water.

"Huh? Aw. Pretty scary."

"How dangerous, I mean."

"Don't know. Only met him a couple of days ago."

"And he's already invited you to the opera? How generous of him!"

"Yep. He's an odd one."

There's nothing for a couple of minutes but the rush of water. Then it stops, soon followed by some splashing sounds. And her amused voice. "Maybe he fancies you."

"Everybody fancies me," grumbles Kurtis into his pillow. Not a chance in hell that sleep will come and rescue him now. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep again, ever.

So he goes to the half opened bathroom door and waits, hanging head, sloped shoulders, but nothing else comes. Defeated, he calls, "Hey. I'm going out."

"Where?"

"For a walk, a beer. What do I know. You've been hogging that bathroom for ages."

"Right."

"Right what?" he asks irritated.

"Go. Be sure to be back in time."

"Sure. Will do."

He takes two steps before freezing on the spot. His head jerks up and he slaps his forehead.

"Aw, crap! Since when do I have to ask for permission!"

There's a short pause before she chimes merrily back, "Oh, well, you know. Marry in haste and repent at leisure."

It could be just perfect. Just about. To watch her now, so relaxed, so self-assured is breaking his goddam heart.

_Fuck me. And here I was, thinking I didn't even have one…_

Well, it can't be mended. Better get done with it. If he plays his cards right, in a few days he'll be lying in a hammock, enjoying the sun. If he fails, he'll be dead. One way or the other, it'll be over. Big deal.

* * *

"Hello, Marten. You don't seem exactly delighted to see me." 

"You're a dead man, Trent."

"Funny how everyone seems to be wanting me dead these days. And here I am, feeling so much alive…"

"What a sucker. You used to be so reliable. What's happened to you? Thought you knew better than let a woman turn your head like that."

"You're right there, but I find her quite irresistible. I positively couldn't hand her over without having a go first."

"And? Is she any good?"

Kurtis is about to return some nasty remark when something snaps inside him, and all of a sudden he finds he can't breath. He grips the rail of the bridge harder and throws Gunderson a guarded look. Gunderson is looking perfectly at ease, even cheerful. No lack of sleep for him, no dark demons haunting his nightmares. Gunderson's demon has long been comfortably installed in a bank vault, and he feeds on American dollars, Swiss francs, laundered money diverted to a Gran-Cayman account. He knows; they shared that craving demon once. Old friends, almost a bigger brother figure, a lifetime ago. In the bizarre grey zone they move in, there's no bond like the one of commonly shed blood. But brothers kill each other sometimes. Cain and Abel, that tiresome old story.

"You mind your own business, Marten."

"No problem. Of course, you do realize that part of my business will be getting rid of you."

"You're welcome to try, buddy. Anytime."

A sigh. "A pity. You _were _good. Always a hot-headed one, though."

They hold each other's stare. The stance of dogs growling over a bone, not biting yet, just showing off bared fangs. Kurtis is the one that lowers his eyes first, and Gunderson relaxes visibly, his eyes acquiring a faraway quality. "Trent. Remember Sierra Leone, back in 1996? Remember van Houtten always babbling about the bullet awaiting him somewhere, the one with his name on it?"

"Sure." Kurtis allows himself a short, dry laugh. "He thought he was Clint Eastwood, the fatalistic jerk."

"A jerk alright, but he had a point there. Not fate, but probability." Gunderson's eyes are frosty now, arctic ice, but he speaks as casually as someone commenting on the weather. "Stay away from the lady and you might have a tiny chance of living for another hunt. You idle around, you meet your bullet sooner than you'd expected. Am I making myself clear?"

"As daylight." He raises two fingers and touches his temple, a reflex, because he's already lost in contemplation, gazing over the rail of the bridge at his reflection below, a dark patch in the rippled water.

* * *

This is the time when Venice seems to rise to its best, when daylight begins to fade, streets emptying fast, water quieting into deep, dark mirrors. As if the whole city would gather itself into a dreamy recollection of past glories, exhaling a long sigh. 

Kurtis rubs his eyes with his hand. His hand that was tracing her body not too long ago, reshaping her flesh so it would mould to his hungry body. _Betrayed with a kiss_, but it's the hand that collects the pay. His Judas hands.

* * *

"Well. What do you think?" She spins around, silk hushing softly on the polished floor. 

"Gorgeous," he answers, barely looking. Better not get too close a look, or he might just drop the whole act and sweep her off to the bed behind her.

"Glad you like it," she tells him sarcastically, parting the skirt to secure her gun to a shapely leg. As she bends over, she catches a glimpse of his shoes and straightens back up abruptly.

"Kurtis, you cannot wear those boots with a suit."

"I don't care. I can't do much running with those flimsy things you bought."

"Oh, but I can with these!" she says angrily, pointing at her stilettos.

He looks for a short moment at her shoes, tilting his head to one side.

"Probably not, but you'd do a hell of a lot of damage if you kicked someone with them."

After staring at him for a couple of seconds, she scowls and storms to the door. "Let's go."

"Hey! I'll just lift you up and carry you, OK? You won't have to run."

But she's already stalking away to the staircase, and he hasn't spoken very loudly.

* * *

Out of old routine, she checks the place for possible means of escape. She seriously hopes Kurtis knows what he's up to, because the box is too high to simply jump down. Too far away from the curtains to attempt any risky stunts. She could possibly grab the chandelier if she jumped far enough, but what afterwards? She sighs in resignation.

Never mind. It's Lara Croft we are talking about. She'll think of something.

"I'm deeply honored, Lady Croft. I've heard lots about you, but the word beautiful doesn't do you justice…" the black suited man tells her in his strange low voice, brushing her knuckles with cold lips. Kurtis was right. He's scary.

Applause rises in waves, as the conductor comes into view.

Leading her to the plush seat beside him, he hands her a glass of champagne and, lifting his own lightly, says: "To beauty. To ephemeral, transient, fragile beauty."

The curtains part, to reveal a painted church on the stage.

_**Ah! Finalmente! Nel terror mio stolto**_

_**Vedea ceffi di birro in ogni volto…**_

The illusionist leans closer. "A friend of mine had an encounter with beauty not long ago. Since then, he has not been able to eat or to sleep. He says he's fallen from grace, but what a gracious fall, don't you think?"

"Falling from grace often ends in a sore encounter with the ground. You should tell him that…" she counters smoothly.

He leans back into his seat, grinning, and lifting his hand, summons the huge man standing in the shadows.

"Mr. Gunderson. If you would be so kind…"

The giant retrieves a wrapped up package, tossing it towards Kurtis, who catches it swiftly on mid-air.

"Lady Croft, _you_ will tell him that. Soften his landing, so to say."

Without looking back, the man adds, with such detached relish that her blood freezes, even before her brain has registered the actual words, the fiery sign on his white hand…, "_**Tristans, ges no.n auretz de me**._ Twelve trials had Arkaleus to pass, before he could rest at Montségur. The thirteenth is only beginning, _**Senher**._ Your presence is not required anymore, but of course, feel free to stay and watch…"

She starts to turn, but a familiar hand lands heavily on her bare shoulder, pushing her back into her chair. Breath quickening, eyes wide in horrible comprehension.

His trust-inspiring voice…

"I think I'll pass. _**Trop d'orgoill**_, Rouzic."

Kneeling down behind her, Kurtis' hand pushes aside her skirt, lingering briefly on her tense leg before retrieving the concealed weapon.

She hears Gunderson chuckle low.

"Judas…" A whisper, barely leaving her trembling lips.

The metallic taste of fear in her mouth.

Watching him raise two fingers in a mocking little salute.

"Enjoy yourself, Lady Croft."

* * *

**A/N: Well, sorry. Decided it was enough comedy for a while. I'm very pleased by the way it went down, but the story's about to turn nasty.**

**Just in case you're wondering … the language I used above is the so called _Langue d'Oc_, or simply said, Occitan. Sounds familiar? Think of the Vault of Trophies: Bogomil, Montsegur, Occitan… That's right…**

**Again, just-in-case, here is the translation:**

"**Tristam, you are not getting anything else from me" (Rouzic)**

"**Too much pride" (Kurtis)**

**As for the _Tosca_ bit:**

"**Finally! Lost in my terror,**

**I was seeing an enemy in every face…"**

**Hey, I'm a translator, ok? I can't resist this kind of stuff. By the way, does anyone know if I'minfringing the law by adding A/Ns? Since I'm not supposed to respond to reviews...?**** Still, thanks everyone that read and reviewed. You know who you are. **

**Merry X-mas everyone, and CU in 2006.**


	15. Carvings of blood

**Finally back with another -dark and weird- chapter.Sorry for taking so long to update (I had to try my hand at writing something funny -see "Home of the brave"- , since this chapter made me feel so depressed. A review would be nice (you know, to cheer me up a little...)

* * *

****CARVINGS OF BLOOD**

That familiar, merciless old voice… **_"Vorsicht, junge Dame. Das Vertrauen..."_** _Oh, Werner!_

On the stage, the tenor is braying out his part, but Lara isn't listening anymore. Her thoughts are spinning, short, painful flashes of the past days and weeks. She closes her eyes. She won't dwell in this deep despair. She won't ask herself how the world can turn so rapidly into deepest black. It has been like that before. It will always be like this. If the very man that shaped her into what she is was able to betray her, why should she be surprised that a stranger would?

* * *

The five metal pieces, the five carvings of blood, one for each century of darkness. Under its spell, its insufferable weight he staggers stubbornly on. The dwindling of his strength, an almost physical sense of being drained, sucked empty. And maybe because he was fearing it, this moment of truth, the real dimension, the enormity of what he's just done, comes crashing down on him. Not the act itself, the betrayal –for she surely knows how to take care of herself, and if damned Karel knew what's good for him, he'd better run away screaming, instead of fooling around her like a love-stricken teenager, deceived –him, the deceiver- by her doe eyes and her soft mouth. There's nothing soft to the woman. He can vouch for it, he has felt all that taut muscle under the scarred skin, tense even in relaxation, her hard, calloused palms, the razor-sharp tongue.

For this. Just for this, this domination, this asserting a right to rule. To stand tall to a father's pride. This _presumption_. Even calling him his father makes him angry. Anger swelling at the old silly patterns he can't keep away from.

_You never wanted a son. You wanted a follower. Are you contented now, wherever you are?_

When the old Templars went into battle, they were told that if the one carrying the banner, the checkered **_Beauceant_**, were to fall, the rest were to regroup under whatever flag was still standing. Hospitalers, teutonic knights, it didn't matter. Fight to the last man.

The problem is, what if there was no banner left? What if the banner is just this? Deep loss, and the endless night.

_Well, fuck you, daddy. See if I can't find one of my own.

* * *

_

"I thought you were a librarian."

"I was, in fact, milady. I do not care much for being the one in the limelight. I prefer, how should I put it…-_watching_ from behind the stage." He pats her hand amiably. "A lot more interesting."

She pulls away her hand, grimacing with distaste. "This won't work."

"Oh, I'm aware of that, my dear. But my friend likes to think it will. Why deny him the one favour? I've always had a soft heart…" The man lightly taps his chest. "This soft tissue. It weighs you down. So easily torn."

"Have you ever actually seen one, Mr. Rouzic? It is tough. Pure, stubborn muscle."

"I've held a few in my hand, and they were still _beating_, Miss Croft. Tough, indeed," he replies with a snicker. "Maybe it's that that my friend wants to find out."

"If he's got one?"

Luther Rouzic shrugs. "Humanity is like a contagious disease. It rubs off on you. Look at me, so contented all these years with my books and my records. Not that the doings of little bugs are worth recording, but well. Everyone needs a hobby."

"You got bored, so you've decided to stir things up somewhat? A little Cabal revival for a pastime?"

"The Cabal, Miss Croft, was a joke. A great idea, but you can't really entrust humans with the carrying out of long-term plans. They tend to be so forgetful. Even after they've been around for, let's say, five hundred years. Like weathervanes, you know. One day this, the next that. But I am not telling you anything new, am I…"

"I see. _Divide et impera_. Who said that?"

"You really want to know? Not the legend, but the truth?"

She jumps up. There's something about this man that makes her nauseous. She's seen, felt, and touched evil in all its different shapes, the whole assortment. But this is the kind she despises the most. The sort that relies upon your own low instincts taking over, while all the time smiling and nodding appreciatively from the background.

"I wouldn't do that, Miss Croft, if I were you. Because the minute you jump, you _attempt_ to jump to that chandelier, Mr. Gunderson over here will open fire, and so many of the innocent souls at our feet, enjoying this fine music in blissful unawareness, will have a new glimpse of hell altogether."

"As if I cared."

"Oh, morals, Miss Croft. How boring. For the problem is, you do."

"Mr. Rouzic, I see no reason why we should delay this. You can bring me to Karel now."

"Not interested in seeing the end of this? The soprano is very good…"

"No need for it. She dies, he dies. I've seen _Tosca_ a few times already, and in much better company…"

"Not even wait for the highlight? **_E lucevan le stelle_**… Ah, so wonderful when he sings 'I'm dying, desperate, and I've never loved life as much before.' That would be the little Lux-Veritatis maggot's part, now that I think of it." Rouzic nods appreciatively. "Do you really think he'll come back?"

Lara shrugs.

"Will you forgive, if so? Providing you survive the night?" And he watches her cold smile, and smiles back at her. "Yes. I thought so."

"Belial. Belphegor. Azazel. Leviathan…" she starts reciting slowly.

"He's dead, milady. Just for consolation. But a beautiful boy, he was. So… sweet. So I told Konstantin, **_In Hoc Signo Vinces_**. Your blood for mine. And he agreed, can you believe it. Doomed by fatherly love…"

"Astoroth. Abaddon."

"Call me Legion, Miss Croft." Seemingly losing interest, Rouzic makes a dismissive gesture. But she must have come close, because something flickers and then it's gone in his lone black eye. He turns on his seat.

"Mr. Gunderson! Lady Croft wishes to leave now. Would you be so kind to escort her to Mr. Karel?"

As Gunderson pulls her arm, making her stand up, Rouzic adds, "Lady Croft, before you leave, let me express my sincere gratitude to you for, well, "disposing" of my old ally. **_Meister_** Eckhardt…"

"Oh, no need to thank me.You know how it ends, don't you? Scarpia dies as well. There is still YOU to go."

"Yes, everyone dies before the curtain falls. But me_, I am death_."

"You are just the villain. And I'll get you in the end. I always do."

* * *

She trips over her skirt and almost falls as the big Scandinavian pushes her ruthlessly towards the waiting motorboat.

Two of his cronies are waiting beside it, having a smoke.

"Where the fuck is Van Houtten?" Gunderson snaps at them.

The two men exchange nervous glances. At last, one of them ventures: "No idea, boss. Said he was going for a piss, and that was the last we saw of him."

Gunderson gives Lara another push, making her stumble into the boat, and scans the deserted quay. Muttering something, he climbs after her, clearly pissed off. The other men follow.

Lara can't resist: "Someone done a Houdini on you, Gunderson?" She makes herself comfortable on the seat. "Tsk, tsk. It's a hard lot to be surounded by amateurs."

Gunderson leans over, looking her up and down as if she was some kind of interesting microbe. She feels her own courage retreating fast. Very fast. _Oh dear, oh dear. Shut up your bloody mouth. Look at the size of those fists. You don't want to get acquainted with them, do you?_

Gunderson nods at the man beside her. The man puts his gun aside, and producing a roll of duct-tape, proceeds to tie up her hands.

As usual, her mouth seems to have a mind of its own.

"This is quite unnecessary, you know? I have not come this far because of not knowing how to behave myself."

"Orders, my lady."

"You like being bossed around, is that it?"

"I don't mind it as long as the money is right."

"You do know that money is not an issue for me, Marten. Can I call you Marten?"

"So I've been told, "Lara", but thank you. I'm very much contented with my pay."

A cunning smile spreads over her face, never quite reaching her eyes."There could be more than just money in for you…"

Slowly, she trails up his leg with her foot.

The move isn't lost on him.Gunderson nods, thoughtfully.

"You are a little slut, aren't you."

He gently strokes the arch of her foot, smiling. Then, closing his fist around her ankle, he gives her leg a sudden mighty pull that tears her clean off the seat, making her fall heavily on the floor. The other men laugh.

"Don't you worry, bitch. You'll get enough. Sadly, it won't be me administering it."

Slowly, she pulls herself up on all fours. Even with tied up hands she can be lethal, as they shall soon discover. Straightening suddenly, she lashes out, putting all her weight behind the blow. The laughing man that's trying to help her back into the seat staggers away with a cry, clasping his hands over his blood-spurting nose.

Gunderson shakes his head in wonder.

"You are a fighter. I like that."

Then, he slaps her hard across the face, sending her down again.

She licks tentatively at the blood trickling out of her mouth. Her eyes shut. Mouth curling deceptively upwards. She might be unarmed right now, but not defenseless. Trained muscles, accustomed to strain and pain. Teeth, sharp fingernails. Don't forget the stilettos. And wrath. Because she isn't seeing darkness anymore. Behind her lids there is only the throbbing, deep crimson of savage rage.

* * *

Nils runs his tongue over his dry lips. Everything's hurting. It must be the dampness of this wretched city, creeping into his tired bones. The only sound is the water, lapping rhythmically against the pontoon. He's been following a shadow, but how do you follow a shadow in a place full of them?

His hand grips the gun harder. Pain, startling in its clarity, shoots up his arm. The bloody arthritis. He's too old to be doing this, although he's just turned fifty eight. Men don't age gracefully in this _metier._

The alley leads to a small square. Deserted. He squints at a forgotten shirt hanging from a line of rope. It flaps lightly in the seabreeze, as though greeting him.

Devil, he should have told Marten "No". That he's too old, that his hands are unsteady. That life has a way of exacting revenge. That someone like him, born in bright Sun-City should end up like this, suffocating in the squalor of a flat in Vilnius, with the smell of boiled cabbage creeping under the doors, the cheap vodka, the endless, crumbling stairs that one of these days will claim his heart, and maybe better like that, better, because he's long lost his ability to move like a shadow following a shadow…he should have said no…

Nils van Houtten looks up at the myriad of stars high up in the sky, just in time to see one loosening itself from the others, tracing a fleeting arch of fire in the blackness. The muzzle of a gun digs into his ribs. He closes his eyes. He's not even had time to make a wish.

"You shouldn't be doing this."

"No, I shouldn't." He lifts his hand, gun held limply by his knotty fingers, like a poor offering or an explanation. "It's the dampness. Wrecking me."

"Why are you, then?"

Nils shrugs. Say what? Mention the misery, the lack of jobs, the hopelessness?

"Greta. My youngest, you know. A bun in the oven…"

The shadow at his back doesn't answer. He can feel it breathing, the steady breath of still young lungs, not defeated yet by so many stairs and so much disillusion.

"That's bad. She can't be much older than sixteen…"

"Fourteen. Just turned fourteen."

The cold barrel abandons his back. He should be relieved, but he's not. He accepts the cigarette. The flickering light of the flame lights up, for a second, the hard-set mouth, the taut lips. The somber eyes. Nils tries to restrain the trembling of his hands. He inhales deeply, coughs…

"You ain't looking well," says the younger man.

"Feeling like shit, I am." Holding the cigarette with his lips, he shows him his hands "I don't think I would have hit you, even if I had had the guts to pull the trigger."

They smoke in silence, until Kurtis speaks "_Fossaputrida_, is that it?"

"Yes. Rio Cá di Dio, right behind a church called _San Giovanni in Braghora_."

Nils drops his stub on the floor and puts it carefully out with the heel of his cheap shoes. His socks feel wet.

"I have a motorboat over there. I was to report back when I was sure that you'd stay away, so Gunderson knows already. He'll be expecting you."

"Sure," Kurtis snickers, a trace of bitterness in his voice. His eyes are lifted to the twinkling sky.

"I think he feels uneasy about killing you, also. We used to be friends. Colleagues."

Kurtis shakes lightly his head, darkly amused "Not for good old days sake, Nils. Not Marten. If he's having issues about killing me, it means that he's not being paid well enough."

He flicks his own cigarette away, then flips the gun in his hand, weighing it. "Know what, Nils? It ain't your name on this one. I checked." He makes a turning gesture with his other hand.

Nils fixes his gaze on the starry sky. So many stars. He can't recall ever seeing so many together.

"Some night, isn't it," comes the voice from behind him.

They're the last thing he sees, before the butt of the gun hits his temple.

* * *

**A/N: Glyph / from Greek, "carving" (as in _hieroglyph_, "sacred carving")**

**_In hoc signo vinces_, "by this sign you shall conquer":this is the phrase emperor Constantine I the Great saw in the sky before the battle of Milvian Bridge, 312 AD (and not on a Pall-Mall pack of cigarettes...)**


	16. Falling

**I suspect someone is going to be disappointed that Lara doesn't need to free Karel from all those hooks and chains ;) Let me put it this way: someone's strenght grows, someone else's diminishes. Cause and consequence...**

**FALLING**

"Ta-daa," says Gunderson cheerfully -"Here we are, at last, milady."

Lara lifts her eyes and gives the building a quick look. Typical Venice. Under a certain light, or under certain circumstances, her _palazzos_ are of an incredible beauty, but a close scrutiny will always reveal the leprous walls, the sagging roofs, the tired face of a whore with too much makeup and feet sunk deep in the mud.

"Well, Marten. Business isn't going that well for the Cabal, by the look of this. Or maybe your services are a bit on the expensive side."

The Scandinavian's lips curl upwards, in his own parody of a smile. He pushes the heavy door open, ordering with a gesture for his men to stay outside.

Venetian houses start on the first floor, in the so called **_piano nobile_**. The steps of the long staircase are slightly dented where countless feet have left their imprint. Human feet, and who knows what else as well, angels maybe, a twisted version of a _Jacob's ladder_, only the perspective is kind of wrong, because, she suspects, this might be an ascension to hell. Hell beginning at the other side of the door where Gunderson stops. The man guarding it, who's been dozing away, scrambles to his feet as fast as he can, a look of fear in his blunt face. Dim music is coming from behind the door, and she smiles a little when she recognizes the melody. Gunderson lets his paw rest almost gently on her lower back, before pushing her forwards.

"Time to party, Cinderella."

"Ah, glass slippers, Marten. You break them, they make for such nice, sharp glass shreds."

She makes a gesture as though slicing the air before her. "By midnight the spell will be over. Mind you don't cut yourself then…"

"Warning taken, Lara. Though I fear the prince won't live up to your expectations…" Gunderson smiles, before softly closing the door behind her.

* * *

Maybe it's the whack he gave her a few minutes ago, but the thing is, she is not feeling scared at all. As in every time she's come face to face with one of her nightmares, eerie calmness has taken over. The room is dark. The heavy velvet curtains have been pushed aside, and a thousand stars are peering into the room through the long arched windows, bathing in cold light the heavy armchair in the middle, and the figure sitting on it. Lara hums softly, following the familiar cadence of the music.

"How appropriate!" she laughs at last. "Gustav Mahler, the fifth symphony. Ever seen _'Death in Venice'_, Karel?"

"A long time ago. Come closer, Lara."

She does, eyes steadied on the white blur glowing in the shadows. He slowly turns in his seat to watch her approach, and she gasps. An icy finger, trailing amorouslydown her spine. But if it weren't for the brief widening of her pupils, her face could well be carved out of stone.

"I have been expecting you. Come, come to me, child. Do not fear your old colleague…"

"You truly were… the bringer of plagues…" even with her heart fluttering at the base of her throat like a caged bird, her voice comes out smooth, calm. "Looks like I've underestimated you again."

"Surprised, Lara?" Karel counters, a tinge of red in the cold, cruel eyes of her former mentor.

"Why?" she asks quietly.

"Why?" he echoes her, savouring the word. "Is it answers you want? Why I left you to rot? Why I never let you get away?"

"No! Why… _this_."

"Oh, yes, this…" he nods, thoughtful. "But it is simple, don't you see? This is what I do. What I _am_. I reflect people's deepest longings. I'm the faithful mirror of your most secret desires."

"Mirrors reflect too much. They reverse images pretentiously, and think they're profound."

"Aah." He nods in approbation. "An exemplary student. Tell me, Lara. Did the pupil exceed the master, after all?"

"I don't know. You're the one with the answers. You tell me."

"No, she didn't. What was it like, to be entombed? Want to talk about it, _ja_?"

"You know what it was like. You, _Karel_, even more than he ever did, for he was blessed by death, and you weren't. You can drop that face, now."

He holds her stare. In the dim, she can see his struggle to regain his old form, the one she was first presented with, in what feels like a long gone time now. Ashen skin smoothening over the finely chiseled bones, eyes flickering for a moment before clearing into the palest grey, like a sky after the tempest."But it still hurts, doesn't it?"

"Yes. In more ways that you could ever understand, Karel."

A deep sigh. "That's not my name."

"No, of course it's not. Care to tell me your real name?"

He is silent for a long moment. Then he answers. "For you, woman, I'll be nameless. Do not try to know. I could not tell you, nor would you be able to pronounce it. No ears in your world that could bear its sound. My name changes constantly. I've forgotten it myself."

"Too bad you haven't forgotten mine. It must have been terribly boring to wait all this time for me to come around."

"Time doesn't mean anything to me, Lara. I've waited an eternity already. And now you're here."

"Now I'm here. I don't intend to stay long, though."

"I could show you so many things. Uncover before your eyes the mysteries of time, of space. I could put whole worlds in your hand. Your hand could rule the world."

"And teach me incantations, and manufacturing iron weapons, and painting my eyes with antimony. Come on, Karel. That might have worked nine thousand years ago, but _homo sapiens_ has come a long way since."

Against all odds, he lets out a delighted peal of laughter. "See? I knew it from the very moment I set my eyes on you. It was you I was waiting for, all along."

She kneels slowly in front of him, scrutinizing the ancient face, the blank eyes. "But you've killed my father."

"You've killed my child. My sleeping, beautiful child. And you tried to kill _me_."

"Without success, sadly enough. Might be luckier next time."

"My offer is still standing, Lara…"

"Thank you. And if I repeat that I'm not interested, you'll shout 'Ignorant mortal' and go all green on me."

Karel laughs softly. "If that slows you down… Gives you time to think…"

"You may be feeling magnanimous, but that isn't one of my outstanding virtues. An eye for an eye…"

"…a tooth for a tooth. We are even, Lara. Bless me, and I'll give you my blessing."

They stare at each other. The night is shining on the white mirror of his forehead.

"In exchange for what, exactly?"

He looks up, pensive. "Your soul?"

"Aha." She lets out an abrupt, humorless laugh. "Obviously."

"Obviously," he acknowledges.

Lara licks her lips. "Let me see you_. You_."

For a moment it looks like he won't comply, but then, Joachim Karel's image trembles in the dark, a Fata-Morgana in the desert, shiny little pieces of colored glass rearranging themselves in a new pattern, falling into place as the kaleidoscope turns.

Her initial suspicion is confirmed. He doesn't look a bit like the Sleeper, that emaciated mockery of an angel's corpse. The sense of age to this creature is overwhelming. His skin is a flash of light, and in its glow, something ancient is morsing its message.

_Mene Mene Tekel. Mene Mene Tekel._

He reaches out a hand, and it is a claw, anchored to the floor by a chain that looks more like a ornament to his branded skin. She takes a step back, shaking her head.

"You know, he was just the same. Always promising power over life or death, worship from those around me…" She closes her eyes. "Do you want to know what I answered?"

"That you had your fair share of that, of course." Karel laughs, benevolent.

"There you go. So, the answer is still no. The only true bliss I can think of is oblivion, and you can't give me that. That is the blessing of death, incidentally one of the reasons why I'm not interested in living forever."

The moment is interrupted by a loud thud downstairs, followed by the staccato of a machine gun. Muffled cries, things falling. A hell of a racket.

"Fallen one, _Elohim_…" she whispers hurriedly into his ear. There's no scent to him. Almost as if he weren't there at all. An abandoned tomb. "You've been betrayed. He gave him the Sanglyph. Your blood. Your children's blood."

She straightens, observing his reaction. There's nothing for a moment, and then the pale skin starts to ripple, melts away. He jerks up his head, baring his teeth in the most horrible gnarl she's ever seen. And she has seen a few. She spins around to face the door, aware of the sound of feet now, coming fast up the stairs. Not that she knows what's going on out there, but she'll be damned if she'll stick around to find out. Not without a gun, not while her hands are stuck together and definitely _not_ while she's wearing a friggin' ball gown. She leaps forward and grabs the crown luster, crystal teardrops chiming merrily as the impulse of her leap set them into motion. A chain reaction, cause and consequence: the door opening, the chain snapping, the scream of the man busting into the room to find himself facing the worst nightmare of his life, all made of lashing claws and sharp fangs. She lets go, tensing every muscle. Her body traces a graceful arch, like an arrow, shattering the glass of the window. And then, there is just the rushing of wind in her ears, the starry night, and the fall.

In the distance, the mother of all bells, the imperious **_marangona _**of Venice's **_campanile _**starts its solemn countdown, ordering silence.

* * *

_Hello Venice_. She bounces once, twice, on the canopy. Surprisingly so, for she's been counting on mucky water at best, or hard pavement at worst.A short silent _yippee, made it_, before she feels herself sliding down fast. Her bleeding, bruised feet dangling over the abyss. Given two seconds to rethink the whole situation, she finds herself caring VERY much what lies beyond. Never mind the filth of the channels, the human excrement swimming happily in the water, the radioactive dumps of nearby Mestre city. Anything, even filthiest liquid, before cold stone.

She tries feebly to pull herself up on the canopy, but it's too steep, and she can feel her muscles surrendering to gravity. She falls. Striking ground with the last chime of the bell. Her remaining heel snaps loose, but her bones hold. She commands her body to roll, to absorb the impact, but still, the fall takes its toll, and her head bangs hard against the pavement. She's just about to scream out when she feels the sorely familiar muzzle of a gun straining at her neck.

The voice is familiar as well. It's Gunderson's. "Well, well, Cinderella. Is it midnight already? That was a very short visit."

Her teeth flash white in the darkness. "Ooh. Marten. What a surprise."

"Karel not nice enough to you?"

"He talks too much. Besides, he's a bit too old for me." She beams at him. Christ, she'd beam at sodding Lucifer, as she may have just done; she may as well smile at an overgrown Scandinavian ape, for all it matters.

Because he's bound to give her a taste of a bullet, she believes. He looks kind of upset, actually. Behind him, she can make out the slumped silhouette of a male body. It's an old friend of hers, but his nose has stopped bleeding, probably owing it to the fact that most of his blood is oozing out from a deep gash in his neck now. In a single fast motion, she ducks under Marten Gunderson's outstretched arm, spins and flips him over her shoulder, not a very elegant move, but considering he's twice her size, quite effectively. The minute he's flat on his back she stamps hard on his hand, cursing inwardly the loss of her heel. He writhes on the ground, trying to get hold of his weapon, and she quickly kicks it away. With a low splash it sinks in the water. She aims a kick at his head, but her foot slips on all the spilled gore and, arms flailing like a windmill, she goes down. In the short struggle that follows, she still manages to land a couple of vicious blows before he pins her down and thumps her in the face, sending her brains rattling like loose coins in a jar.

Seconds tick away slowly as she waits for the _coup de grace_. When the weapon roars she braces herself for the pain. It doesn't come.

Still kneeling over her, Gunderson is staring in utter disbelief at the red flower blossoming in his stomach. He lets out a low grunt, before he tumbles forwards, slowly, like a felled tree.

Lara writhes out from under his collapsed weight, and staggering to her unsteady feet, savagely kicks the side of his head before she's grabbed by the arm and yanked away.

"I thought… I had told you… to be nice to her…"

Gunderson sneers, his eyes glazed, a hand pressed against his middle while the other scratches the wall like a blind white spider, looking for a hold as he tries to scramble back to his feet. "She seems to like a rough hand, that one…"

A second bullet hits his thigh. The big body slumps to the ground, a puppet whose strings have been severed. Grabbing him by his collar, Kurtis pulls Gunderson's face so close to his own that for a moment they look like lovers about to kiss each-other. Marten Gunderson knows it's not a kiss that's coming to him. A violent death has always been in store. Just like Mummy was always telling him, at least in the spare moments she was sober. He smiles at the fast approaching darkness.

"It had Marten written all over, you know..."

"Go to hell, Trent. See you there."

"It's a date, Marten," nods Kurtis, before blowing out his brains.

She stands paralyzed, hands, face and dress smeared with blood and dirt. A galaxy of tiny red dots covers Kurtis' face and shirt, as if he had been sprayed with crimson paint. He draws his forearm over his face, leaving a long smear of blood behind. In contrast to it the whites of his eyes stand out in the dark. The delirious, mad look that she knows must be a mirror of her own. Dead bodies all over the place. The reek of fresh kill. Not a single window has lightened up in the neighboring houses. This city is populated by ghosts. They can be seen, but not awakened. She doesn't even resist when his hand closes over her wrist and drags her to the boat.

Over their heads, green luminescence outshines the night.

* * *

She sits very straight, eyes set firmly ahead. Her mouth has turned to ashes. The voice that comes out of it is not quite her own. "Are you trying to teach me a lesson about trust?"

He doesn't look at her.

"It had to look realistic. Fucked up idiot I am. Had I known what a good actress you are…"

"Do I get a Academy Award?"

"Maybe it wasn't just acting… Maybe you were really wanting to get it on with Gunderson. With "Marten"…"

With a strangled scream, she hurls herself unto him, a hurricane of fists and kicking feet.

Uncontrolled, the boat swerves dangerously close to the poles standing out of the water before he regains control, pushing her away hard.

"You'll be the death of me," he says at last, dragging the words, almost wonderingly. "My own fuckin' personal firing squad…"

"Doom," she nods tiredly, and falls into silence.

* * *

**A/N: I once had a very cool teacher who liked to say -in a ominous voice- before handing back corrected papers, "Mene, mene, tekel" I always thought it hilarious until I used it here, went to check I was using it correctly, and realized what a terrifying quote it actually is. The whole thing goes "Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin" and it roughly means "counted, counted, weighed and divided". So, God wrote this on a wall to signify that Babylon's days were counted. It appears in the Book of Daniel (nothing like writing fanfiction to become biblical all of a sudden...)**


	17. Black

**BLACK**

She has long lost track of time when they finally come to a halt in front of a wrought iron gate, held close by a rusty chain. She had quit even trying since they abandoned the boat somewhere around the _Piazalle Roma_ and switched over to the bike again, heading to the mainland through Mestre, Tarzo, Treviso. That was about the moment she ceased caring. The odd village, turning smaller and smaller. Tree trunks flashing briefly before vanishing into the night like surreal visions. Some have faces, mouths open in silent shouts. Asphalt, and then tarmac, and then just pressed dirt.

A short flip of his hand, but the padlock resists. He doubles over with a soft moan, just a moment, then he makes short work of it by simply shooting it open. The chain lashes out like a whip. From the gate, a weed covered road ascends among tall cypresses to the black bulk of a derelict house. Big and forlorn looking, empty sockets of windows staring blindly at them, black holes deeper than the night itself. Wading through the knee-high grass, they circle the house until reaching a back door. He uses the same procedure to blow it open, and the explosion calls the crickets' concert to a brief break. After a moment of deafening silence, as if the whole place was holding its breath in anticipation, they resume their chirping. Lighting a torch, he steps inside, greeted only by the mournful cry of an owl.

The jumpy light revealing whole maps with windy rivers of cracked stucco and unknown countries of mildew growing on walls, they traverse the empty, dusty rooms. Almost bare but for one or two items that were probably too heavy or too worthless to be carried away. Lara lets herself slump on the floor, and he walks away, leaving her alone in the pitch black silence.

He returns carrying a bucket of water. Taking off his shirt, he wets it before making to reach for her blood-caked face. Lara winces, and pulling back her head, brings her still tied-up hands between them. Dropping the shirt aside, he gets his blade, and hesitates.

"Whatya gonna do when I cut these?"

"Besides beating you to a pulp? Cut them open, they hurt."

He gives her an ugly grimace that might be an attempt at a smirk. "Haven't swallowed your tongue, I see."

"Look, I'm not up to being sarcastic right now. You don't even get it half of the time, you're so blunt. And I can't really hit you, I can barely feel my hands at all. Just cut these through."

Rubbing her wrists, she makes a disinterested survey of the room. "What is this place?"

"A derelict house, by the look of it," he replies dryly. "Just some place to crash in. Pretty safe I hope, if not exactly the _Gritti Palace_."

Yanking the wet shirt out of his hands, she presses it to her bruised cheek. Kurtis waits, crouched in front of her, searching her face.

"Are you gonna say something, Croft? Go on, I'm listening."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Anything. Vent your anger, if it helps."

"Believe me, you don't want me to vent my anger. Have you brought my things in?"

"Over there. Speak to me, Croft."

She wearily pushes the hair away from her face and gives him an uncertain look. Lost, he tries to take hold of her hand.

"Look, I'm sorry, ok?"

She retrieves it quicker than if she'd touched something poisonous.

He hangs his head. Shivers.

"You're mad. You've got every right to be."

"Mad isn't quite the word. I'm raging. You're sick."

He puts his hands in the water, splashing it against his face, trying to rub the blood off. When he looks up, his face has turned into a mask.

"I got you out of it, didn't I? Worked out beautifully…"

"You wish! What you had in mind was grab that thing and run for your life. Whatever happened to me wasn't relevant, am I right? But then, it's not like I hadn't been warned…"

"Right, exactly. You had been warned. You were positively asking for it."

"Except you had to ruin it by coming back."

"I owed you my life."

"You still do, because I was doing perfectly well saving myself. And I would have done so a lot less conspicuously, considering I was disarmed."

"Don't come off all high and mighty, Lara. You would have done exactly the same in my place. Go over corpses if it meant getting what you want."

"I didn't put a painting before your sorry life. That's how much of a fool I am."

Somewhere, the owl croons again. And as if the unbearable sadness of its cry would set something into motion, he leans closer and cups her face, the distance between their lips thinning to a veil. He waits for her to pull away, but she doesn't, so he fishes for a kiss. Gratefulness washes like a powerful wave over him when her lips part slowly, accepting the kiss. The hot prickle of tears behind lids. So grateful, so helpless. Tongues running tenderly over lips, teeth nibbling gently… gently… and then she bites down with all her force.

With a scream he pulls away, clasping a hand over his mouth. "You vicious _bitch_!"

"Ah, here's the real Trent again," she hisses, edging past him to her belongings, while he glares, bewildered, at the fresh blood in his hand. A short inspection of her backpack confirms what she suspects. The bastard has removed everything that could remotely pass as a weapon. "What have you done with my things! My pistols!"

"Stashed them, the whole lot." Angrily, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You don't think I'd let you get your paws on a gun this particular night, do you?"

She turns and hits him square in the face. His eyes widen in surprise, before darkening dangerously. "Stop that. I don't hit women, but I might make an exception if you push me too far."

She hits him again, her knuckles exploding in soaring pain. His head whips to the side, hair falling across his face. "Fuck!" he yells, all composure lost. He yanks his gun out of the holster and brings it up between them with dizzying speed. "Is this the only language you understand!"

"You told me to vent my anger two minutes ago…" she spits out.

"Christ!" In frustration, he bangs his head against the wall. "I knew it was a bad idea to untie you!"

She backs to the opposite wall, securing the distance. "Too late now."

"I should have… gagged you instead." Desolated, he drops his head over his knees. The minute he feels her stir, though, he brings the gun up again. "Lara, for fuck's sake. Don't make me do this! I'd rather shoot myself than harm you."

"You're still aiming a gun at me," she points out, coldly.

A turmoil of emotions washes across his features. Shame, grief, anger. For a moment they just glare at each other. Then he slams the gun on the floor and pushes it across to her feet. She stares at it, at his face, and kicks it away. The torch flickers, and with a curse, Kurtis bangs it a couple of times against the floor, but inevitably, its light dies away, and then there's only blackness. That he's brought along a torch but never thought of fresh batteries seems so logical to her that she has a crazy urge to laugh out loud. But in the dark, a flapping of wings echoes through the room, a cold rush of air as the invisible bird launches himself silently onto its prey. She flinches.

"It's an owl," he whispers almost inaudibly. "It's hunting."

His voice trails away in the silence. She turns her head towards it, trying to get her eyes to adapt to the dark, but the blackness is everywhere. When he starts talking, he sounds close and far away at the same time, as if calling across an arid steppe, or reaching out over an insuperable abyss.

"I used to be scared of the dark when I was little. Thought there were things lurking in the dark, out to get me…"

This poor, fragile bridge, wind-swept, built of meaningless words. Any minute it will give in, crumble to dust. A silent fall into nothingness. Cut him open, she wouldn't see him bleed. But maybe he's crossing it, and at last she feels the tentative weight of his head, coming to rest feather-like on her lap. He holds his breath as her hand rises, and exhales a long, heavy sigh when it lands weightless on his skull. All passion wasted, no strength left in it to push away this burden.

"But it is like that: those things, they'll get you no matter what time of the day. No matter how hard you fight to keep the dark at bay. So, you befriend the darkness, because if she's your friend, she'll let you hide in her. Only there is no place to hide. And then, it creeps into you, the dark. Inside you, so everywhere you look, there is darkness. Every time you look, you only see black."

His hair is spiked with dry blood under her hand. She licks her lips. They taste like blood. A taste, a tactile sensation. Open eyes watching nothing. Just black.

* * *

The acrid stench of blood reawakens dormant memories. Long obliterated by the smell of vellum, now it fills his nostrils with renewed force, and opening his mouth, he tastes the air with the tip of his tongue, savoring it.

What carnage! he thinks, without surprise, but with a kind of grudging admiration for the boy's _chutzpah_, for he surely recognizes what kind of bird has been picking at these bones, the pattern of cuts, the accurate surgery on his former minions' throats. He must have wanted to work in silence, to allow it a taste of human blood. All the better. The blade won't know the right choice when it comes to it.

He steps over a fallen corpse, careful to avoid soiling his well-shined shoes. Something else has been at work here, and, giving in to an irresistible desire, he dips a finger in the already cooling blood and smears it over his mouth like lipstick. The folly of his own gesture makes him laugh, and Joachim looks sharply over his shoulder, before returning his eyes to the night.

"_Shining one_…" he greets him, with mild mockery. "You've been feeling arty again, my dear…" he sways a hand at the bloody swirlings randomly spread across the walls. Over the centuries, they've come to understand that camouflage is essential for survival, but the creature's celestial nature never stays put for long. How could it, really. For he doesn't recognize its kin among the vermin. Never did, never could. Where he himself despises, the other one's indifferent, like the Sphinx, like a constellation.

"What do I hear? You gave him the Sanglyph." Karel's face is free of emotion. Nothing in his stance -straight back, folded arms, eyes lifted to the stars- conveys what he might be feeling. But 'feeling' for lack of a better word.

"That I did, yes." Luther picks the needle off the record, tirelessly repeating the same chords again and again. "Jachin, my dear, look at this. This is ruined!"

With the speed of a flash, Karel goes at him, lifting the black man effortlessly off the ground and holding him against the bloodied wall, squirming. "You. You double-faced, repellent half-breed…" He loses his grip as the man's neck seems to dissolve under his hand, a snaky shadow scurrying up the wall and across the ceiling until rearranging itself again into a long, black man.

"No reason to get excited, Elohim. Had you been able to keep your part of the deal, things would look different…" Rouzic sneers, brushing invisible dust from his lapel. "A thousand chains couldn't hold you, but a single thread of a woman's hair! Pitiful, pitiful!"

"She's gone. With him."

Rouzic sighs, studying his fingernails. "Yes, well. You wouldn't have listened to me, so I won't say now 'I told you so'". He shoves his hands into his pocket and closes his eye, swaying lightly on his feet to some inaudible inner tune. "Do not fret. With the Sanglyph so close, he's as good as dead." Looking at his sibling's grave expression, he adds brightly: "If the woman doesn't kill him first."

Karel contemplates him for a long moment. Grinning, the illusionist steps closer and carefully puts a long finger to the other man's cheek.

"There always was just… you and me. Nothing else. Forget her."

He shrugs the finger away. Sighing, Luther turns and sinks into the armchair, carefully rearranging his long limbs. "You and me…" Seeing that he won't get a response, he folds his hands, and whispers, very slow and deliberate. "Let's play."

"No,"Karel says at last, baring his teeth at the cold night. "Let's hunt."

* * *

**A/N: If you ever go to Venice and are looking for a nice, cheap place to stay, try "Albergho ai Pini", near Tarzo. It is the house described above, only in better shape that I made it to be.**

**And come on. Review!**


	18. A family shot

**A FAMILY SHOT**

She doesn't move until she feels him stir, edge away, get up silently. He moved closer at some point, spooning her body, and grateful for some warmth, or maybe just weary of so much constant struggle -a long sleepless night, a cold floor, the deep, deep darkness- she refused to move away.

But now, as reality realigns itself in the slow passage from night into dawn, she finds herself pressed hard to decide how she's going to face the new day. Rationally seen, there's no doubt that he's despicable, a low creature, scum, a…

_Aber, aber…_an ironic Werner asks in her own voice…_what else did you expect?_

She stretches with great care, testing her limbs one by one. Apart from her face, which must be looking like a sunset in technicolour by now, she seems to be physically unharmed. It's her pride that hurts worst of all.

Light is streaming now into what appears to be a deserted hallway, coming from the adjacent room. Golden specks dancing in the stale air, a network of human tracks on the dusty checkered floor. She hauls herself to her feet and roams through her backpack again, putting on the first clothes she finds and discarding the remains of her dress with an angry kick. She follows the tracks to another elongated room, where a number of high shuttered French windows have been nailed over. One is open now onto a dilapidated terrace, weeds growing among the cracked slabstones, nature reasserting its reign. This is the moment when recognition flows slowly into her mind.

* * *

The rusty wheel of the well whines in strain, the rope so frayed that it's a wonder it holds the precious freight of cool liquid. A chorus of cicadas has replaced the crickets' fiddling, their fat black bodies crashing against his bare legs like soft bullets as he pours the water over himself, rinsing dried blood, and every time he tips his head back, the sun beats against his face and shoulders like liquid fire. It's going to be a hot day, not a single cloud in a sky so blue that it hurts the eye. 

He takes his time, pulling pail after pail until his arms are trembling with effort, even long after the water pooling at his feet has cleared from a pinkish rush into plain water again. As he deposits the pail on the well's brim he remembers how _il Bogomille_ used to tell him there was a turtle, an ancient thing the colour of mud and algae, living at the bottom of the well, unseen, hidden, and how he would wish in those long summer days the well would dry up so he could get a glimpse of it. A tale, a fable, something to lure a gullible orphaned child into believing the beauty of secret things, he realizes now. As if something as benign as a turtle could live forever in the pitch dark of a well. Forever after.

He's still brooding over the turtle as he slouches back to the terrace and finds her there, sitting cross-legged in a tiny patch of shade, absently pulling at the weeds. Her face is set and closed, not giving anything away, but the sun is in his eyes, and his chest fills with air, and there's a slackening in his groin when he sees what she's holding, balancing it loosely between her fingertips-and what happened to the letter that came with it, where did it go? When words are lost, are images all that remain?

"I thought I'd lost it…"

"It was taken here, wasn't it? Happier days…?"

He opens his mouth, closes it again, like a fish struggling for air.

"Your father?"

He nods. He feels naked, although he's fully dressed again.

He lets himself slide down the wall until they're sitting side by side, and waits for whatever is in store. Of all possibilities, this seems the most unlikely. He has been expecting shouts, insults, maybe a fight; certainly not this. He isn't at all sure he's up for it.

"Who are these other people on it?"

He swallows, but he doesn't really have a choice, does he? He was born without one, set onto a path already laid out for him, no matter how hard he has tried to step out of its boundaries. A path programmed into such a sure collision with this woman that he feels utterly foolish to have ever believed it could be avoided. No more than a meteor set for a final slam against some stray planet…

He points shakily to one of the men caught in the snapshot, raising their glasses to the unseen photographer.

"Man over there, we called him _il Bogomille_, the heretic. A boisterous guy, open, great fun. He owned this place. He was in charge of the third painting…" he stops. Sound of voices and clinking glasses rising in his mind. His head jerks ever so lightly to shoo memories away, and again there's only the high pitched cry of the cicadas celebrating the morning.

"They always made sure that there was a Lux-Veritatis close to a Cabal stronghold. Turkey, my father. Venice, him. Get the idea?"

"Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?"

"Yeah. More or less."

His finger slides over the glossy surface until it's resting on the blurry face of the other man, slightly out of focus, the long ridge of a nose, the hollow cheeks.

"That one over there, his name is, _was_, Vasiley. I think you were in his house, in Prague. He was dead by then, but you would have liked him…"

"I liked his house. Had to stop myself from taking anything with me."

He throws her a sidelong glance. Is he being offered a truce?

"Who's the woman?" she presses on. "Is she your mother?"

"No. Not my mother…she was…" He shakes his head. "Look, Lara. I'm not sure I want to talk about this. That I _can_."

"You'll have to start talking about it, though, if you want me to understand."

"Yeah, OK. It's just…not relevant. The last of the Lux-Veritatis, an accidental snapshot. Doesn't mean a thing. They're all dead."

"She looks familiar…"

He shrugs. She studies the picture a little more but every face can look familiar if you stare at it long enough, so she hands it back. Wordlessly he accepts it and slides it into his pouch.

"Was it that bad a life? For you, I mean."

"I don't know. Maybe not. At that time I certainly thought so. We were constantly on the run. It felt like we didn't really belong anywhere."

"When was your father killed?"

"About ten months before I encountered you."

"Were you there?"

"No. I hadn't seen him in ages. I…I got a letter. He wrote to me from time to time. I never answered back. By the time I understood he was doomed…well, you know, I was living on an island. Very nice place. I'll tell you about it someday, maybe. I was kinda sick of myself and the life I was leading, so I went there, tried to sort myself out a bit…His last letter just took too long to reach me."

His voice quivers, and he fights to conceal it. But it's hopeless, words are suddenly pouring out, impossible to silence. And it hurts.

"I knew straight away something was terribly wrong, and I came back as quick as I could. After ten years, I came back, just as he wanted me to. Just like he'd planned me to."

She feels faintly sick. The power that the dead can hold over the living…

"Do you believe in fate, Lara?"

She hesitates a moment before answering. "No."

"Me neither. These men did. Like faith in a kind of superior plan was their most vital hope and their only conviction. I resented them deeply for that. For trying to impose that faith on me."

"Faith…" she repeats, lost in thought. "The least exclusive club, but with the craftiest doorman."

He thinks it over, and grins sadly. "Yeah. He sure enough wouldn't let _me_ in."

"So what did you do?"

"I ran away. I was nineteen and honestly, not too keen on being a soldier. Of any kind, but it just looked like that was the only option for me. I was in the Foreign Legion, you know that."

She nods, vaguely amused.

"What's funny?"

"It seems so obvious a place for someone like you…"

"Someone like me?"

"Kurtis. The Templars, all that jazz. They were the Foreign Legion of the Middle Ages."

"Ah. I see. I hadn't realized. Shit. I was the predictable one all along, huh?"

She nods, pleased with herself. "So you enrolled, changed your name…"

"…cut all my ties. I hid, like the coward I was. You know the rest."

"The Demon Hunter…"

"Ha. Heard that as well, didn't you. Stupid name. I was the hunted one."

"And after five years, you decided to go mercenary."

"I was politely told to fuck off. They ain't all that keen on Poltergeist phenomena in the Legion."

She laughs. Relieved at the change of mood, he half-smirks at her.

"I ain't a very nice kind of guy, huh? I'm so sorry, Lara."

"I'd hardly fit into the 'nice' category either…" She sees something hush across his face and frowns. "What is it, now?"

"Nothin'. Never said a word."

"Kurtis," she warns him, "you were going to…"

"No, really…OK. Was gonna. Sorry."

"What exactly are you apologizing for? Sorry for being so irritating? A constant pain in the neck?"

"That too. But for, you know…this mess, actually."

"Why do I have this feeling that I should treasure this moment? Sorry isn't your favorite word, although it ought to be."

"Hey. Sorry, again. You could have stayed home, you know? Feeding your fishies…"

"My fi-you devil!" she groans. "You found that out, too? Never mind. Lucky that you didn't go for a swim down there."

"I recognize a piranha when I see one. Seriously, Croft."

"The goldfishes were _so_ boring. But they are pretty harmless, truth to tell. You've got to make sure that they're distracted before you even dip your toe into the water, of course. Rule number five."

"Rule number…?" He blinks, openly lost.

**CROFT MANOR'S RULE NO. 5: Feed the fishes before going for a bath.**

"It's madness. Pure madness. Your house is one big deathtrap. I wonder how Winston puts up with it."

"Forget Winston. He's probably the main reason for my so-called insanity."

"He's cool, alright. I liked him."

"He liked you. Why, I have no idea."

"Aah," he sighs. "I'd better not tell you…"

Shaking her head, Lara gets up and walks over to the end of the terrace. Sure, she really _doesn't_ want to know the details. Leaning on the balustrade, she lets her eyes stray over the former garden. "How safe are we here?"

"As safe as it gets. They won't come here. They must think I'm on my way to-" he stops mid-sentence. "Damn," he mutters.

"Your way to where, Kurtis?" Her voice is terse.

He rubshis face. Then he looks up again, expressionless. His answer couldn't surprise her more.

"The place I was supposed to be, from the start.The last bastion. Acre."

* * *

"And they dug under the Temple, your Hughes de Payens and his pals, and they discovered…? Come on, Kurtis, I'm not buying that." 

He shrugs, searching his pockets for his cigarettes, "_'And you shall make for me a holy place, that I may dwell among you_.'"

She recognizes the quote, and sneers, derisive. "The Ark of the Covenant? The Grail? Can't you be more original?"

"You know how they ended, how they were accused of worshipping a devilish creature, the Baphomet-"

"Kurtis," she interrupts, "nowadays even the Church will admit those accusations were false!"

"Oh, but they weren't worshipping it, Croft," he says softly. "They were guarding it."

Detaching his blade from his belt, he comes to her side and hands it to her "You know what this is?"

"Your frisbee."

He rolls his eyes. "It's called a Chirugai, smartass. And what I meant is the material. It's an alloy, mainly iridium. Where do you find iridium?"

"No idea."

"In meteorites, for example, Ms. Croft. You know, those things that fall from the sky when you're least expecting them."

When he sees her start to grin, he gives her a warning look. "Don't you dare mention coconuts…"

She shakes her head, pressing her lips together to choke her mirth. But her attention is caught now by the intricate engravings in the cool metal. "You know, when I first found this in the Strahov, it was too dark to see. I only noticed later what these are. These signs."

He nods, and looks at her, expectant.

"It's Nephilic, isn't it." It's not a question, but a statement. He nods again, and she presses on. "He leaves similar marks on his murder sites. I've seen them. What do they mean?"

"Prayers? Incantations? I've no idea, Lara. This was passed onto me through my father, and the father of his father before that, all the way back to the time when the very first one was entrusted with it. Along with the shards."

"Oh, yes, those shards. They were wasted on Eckhardt, weren't they?"

"No. No, they weren't." His face darkens. "He got what he deserved. The shards were just splinters of a bigger thing. Chunks from a stone from heaven."

"_Lapis ex-coelis_, the stone that fell from heaven," she whispers, awed.

"Right. The lid of the coffin that kept _him_ buried."

"Karel? Was buried…underneath the Temple?"

"'By his strength he establishes,'" Kurtis says grimly. "Two pillars. Strength and Knowledge. Simply put, power."

He chews his lip, lost in his own thoughts. And as if he had suddenly made up his mind on something he blurts out, "Men will do anything for power, won't they? Upturn every stone. Uncover all secrets, no matter what the price. No matter if some things are really better left untouched in whatever abyss they were cast into."

She wasn't expecting this and winces. Like she doesn't know. Anything for…power?

"_Ah, the pace is quickening now, ja_?" says Werner, jubilant, and shutting her eyes, she commands him to silence. _You are dead. Shut up. Shut. Up._

He chuckles, far away. _One more crossing, child_. Far inside. When she opens her eyes at last, she realizes that Kurtis is watching her with worried concern. "You OK?"

She opens her mouth to assent, but what comes out instead is her only confession.

"I saw one. One of them, a few years ago." She draws a deep breath, and then concedes, her face distorted with resentment. "I freed him. I freed him, and not even for power. For…a shiny thing."

God, she hates this. The whiney mea-culpa. Self-blame. Regrets. The misery of it.

Sensing it, he stays silent for a moment, and then asks, not unkindly. "Egypt?"

Her silence is all the answer he needs. But the sharp look she gives him prompts him to explain, guilty-faced. "I pulled Winston's tongue on this."

"Imagine."

"Don't be mad. He was very vague about it. Said you went missing for a while, and that you never forgave…hmm, that German, the Professor."

"Werner. That was his name. And he was Austrian."So much bitterness swinging in her voice. She tries to disguise it behind a tight smile.

"It's bad when someone dies before open issues can be sorted out, ain't it? It's poison. I know."

She wills him silently to drop the subject, but it seems she won't be allotted such luck.

"Winston says that it was all…a big misunderstanding. That he- well, you know. That he loved you."

"Oh, he did. Loved me to death, literally speaking."

"I see. What happened?"

"Nothing, really. I fought a God, and I paid for it."

"Did you…" he speaks with great care, "…kill the God?"

"Can you kill a God?" she snaps, sarcastic. "No. I buried him again." Suddenly, she understands, and her jaw drops in astonishment. Meekly, he nods.

"Is that what you plan to do?"

"If I can, yes."

"It's a dodgy business. Last time I tried, I buried myself instead."

"Well, I certainly don't plan to sacrifice myself in the process. That's what my father would have wanted me to do. A Lux-Veritatis life for the destruction of a God," he presses out through gritted teeth, a look of fierce determination appearing on his face. "But me, I'm going to live to be an old, old man, and die in a hammock, in the sun."

"OK." She exhales slowly. "And why do you think he'll follow you to wherever you're planning to entomb him?"

Kurtis looks her up and down, pensively tapping a finger against his jaw. And when he grins, the feral look in his eyes sends a chill through her spine. "He won't follow me, the damned fool. He'll be following _you_," he says, simply.

"You want to use me as _bait_!"

"The prettiest ever, Lara." He runs a hand through his hair. "It doesn't sound nice, put that way, but it's gonna work. And only that counts."

She gives him a blank look. He holds her eyes, matching her countenance until she nods, stern. "At least you're warning me this time…"

"We're all just pawns, Lara. But a pawn can reach the end of the board and be promoted into a queen."

"Great. And I suppose that'd make you my knight?"

Instead of laughing, he looks away, up at the sky, down at his hands, and murmurs, "I could try."

* * *

"Well, Croft." Not really knowing what else to say, he gets up and wipes his hands on his pants. "You hungry?" 

"Famished."

"There's a village down the road, about ten minutes from here. I can drive there and get us something. Unless you fancy army rations."

"OK."

He fidgets, unconvinced. The whole atmosphere is so odd. Unsure of the next move, not wanting to let her out of his sight, but needing some time on his own, badly. She probably wants some herself, to digest all this. But this could well backfire, you never know with her. She could be gone by the time he gets back. And it crosses his mind that maybe he'll have to trust her this once. That trusting her could be a sort of twisted trial. "Wanna come?"

She squints at him, a half-grin on her lips, and now he's certain the woman is reading him as easily as an open book. "You go. I'll stick around and do a bit of exploring…"

So he makes sure he's a good way down the path before he calls over his shoulder, "But try not to wreck the place, even if it's already falling to pieces!"

* * *

**A/N: Such a long chapter, and so difficult to write. And so many quotes and allusions in it, that I won't start now on who or where they belong to. (I'll add that to the credits at the end of Folly, if I remember) But one thing I should explain, though: Hughes de Payens was the founder and the first Grandmaster of the _pauperes commilitones Christi templique Salomonici_, better known as "Templars". The rest is history.**

**And, btw, I know there's no piranhas at Croft Manor. It's just me, being surreal.**


	19. Song of songs

**SONG OF SONGS**

"Lara?"

Hot silence meets him in the garden. The sun has climbed up, up in the blue emptiness, and is looking down at him like an all-seeing, indifferent eye.

Where has she gone? Unless she's decided on a cross-country flight, they should have bumped into each other somewhere on the single road to the house. And attempting _that_ in this scorching heat would be asking for sunstroke. He surveys the deserted garden, spinning slowly on his feet. Someone laughs above him.

"House is still standing…"

He squints up, and there she is, perched on a windowsill. "Are you coming down, or shall I go up?"

She looks into the room, and back at him, and laughs once, sharp. "You come up. I think you'll like it here."

Against the rectangle of light, the line of her profile is cut out like a chiaroscuro painting, rich browns and golden hues, the thick coil of plaited hair curled on the curve of a shoulder like a dormant snake. When she slowly turns her face in his direction, the inscrutable points of light in her eyes are twin suns reflected in the bottom of a well.

He tries to conceal his uneasiness by dropping his purchases nonchalantly on the rusty iron bed. The striped mattress coughs up a cloud of dust. From her perch on the windowsill she follows all his moves, arching an eyebrow as she watches him test the springs before sitting down on the bed.

"I found a bed," she remarks casually. He nods, studying the room. A monk's cell, the monk long dead, his lone cot floating in the middle like a deserted island.

"Too dark yesterday to check if there were better resting facilities around." He starts unpacking the food avoiding her eyes. She draws up her knees and rests her chin upon them, never taking her eyes off him.

The house is quiet. The silence seems deliberate, self-contained, the kind of silences that are intrinsic to churches, or graveyards; not an absence of sounds but the sum of them, whispers, and creaks, and your own fast-beating heart.

"OK," he exhales a shuddering breath, suddenly aware that he's been holding it, and for quite a while. So be it. In this well he shall drown. "Breakfast in bed, then." He doesn't know what else to say.

* * *

"So? Did you two get all lovey-dovey?" 

"Why, certainly. Assuming you mean me and Karel. Are you jealous?"

"Me?" he scowls, thinking fast. _Am I?_ "Damn right I am. One day of marital bliss and already my wife is flirting with a nine thousand year old crazy bat. And my former boss, too."

"Oh, Marten. Well, he was… imposing."

"Roughed you up a little, huh?"

Lara glances up at him, suspicious. Leaning forward, he lightly touches her bruised cheekbone, grazing it with his thumb. "I can be pretty rough too, know that?"

And it's not a threat, but an invitation, issued in a husky, hoarse voice, and she thinks, _bastard_, and not without a certain fondness. He doesn't sound any too sure of himself, for a change, but more like he's picking his way across treacherous terrain, holes concealed and brimming with spikes, that kind of deadly trap, and Lara would like to laugh, but the touch of his hand is disturbing. She could put it all behind her just by closing her eyes. Which is what she does, with a resigned sigh.

"Stop that, or I'll have to damage something. Probably that hand."

He laughs, but obeys. Instead, he roots through his purchases until he finds something. He considers it a moment, and laughs again. "Comfort me with apples…" and drops it on her lap. Lara blinks, taken by surprise. "… for I am sick with love."

"You're sick, full stop." She looks at the apple in her hand, perfect, round, so red. "If this is some sort of innuendo you're attempting here, let me tell you you've got it all wrong. _I_ should be the one offering this."

"Yes, doll, but you seem determined not to be my temptress, wicked woman you are and all…"

"Because you don't deserve my comfort, treacherous bastard that you are and all…" she counters, kicking her brain into gear, strategizing as fast as she can.

"Milk and honey under her tongue…" he tells the apple, pulling a face.

Smugly, she throws in, "But I'm not the Queen of Sheba, Kurtis. I only look black because I'm covered in dirt."

"Details, details. So you're black and beautiful, like the firs in the Lebanon…"

She rolls her eyes. _A proper poet I've got myself_. "Cedars, Kurtis. And you _have_ got it all wrong, see. It doesn't say anything about cedars in that place."

"No?" Feigning disinterest, he studies his own apple before sinking his teeth into it. "Hmm. This is a great apple."

"Said the serpent, and look where it lead us to. Really, Trent…"

He ignores her studiously, munching away. Lara mirrors him, observing him out of the corner of her eye. She knows something's in the wind, and while not too sure that playing along is the best of ideas, a part of her is enjoying herself. His nerve is simply… unbelievable. After all he's done, that he should still dare to flirt so openly is… so Kurtis.

"You know, now that I think of it, there's this part in which she says her lover's eyes are fitly set," he remarks, his face a perfect study of innocence.

"It does, hmm?" she teases back. "Well, she wasn't being picky, that's all."

He meets her eyes and aims his lopsided grin at her, and Lara shifts her weight-_careful, it's do or die now_-and arranges her face into the blankest look she can manage under the circumstances.

"Shouldn't we get moving?"

"Sure. Afterwards."

"Are you going to return my weapons to me?"

"Later, if you ask nicely." He grins from ear to ear and adds in a perfectly reasonable tone, "Anyway, you know it's going to be hell to smuggle all that stuff into Israel, no less. Better get whatever we need there."

She thinks it over, and then nods. "Can be arranged."

"What's your contact?"

"Russian. Yours?"

"Syrian, but I'd better not use it. He might be not all that happy to see me…"

Lara snorts. "Spare me the details. You really have a penchant for trouble, don't you."

"Tell me about it. Trouble loves me. Look at you, trouble could be your second name."

"I don't _love_ you. It's just my stupid hormones."

That makes him explode with laughter. When he's calmed down somewhat, he asks, bold as brass: "So, what are your stupid hormones telling you?"

"Nothing much. They're dumbstruck by my lack of common sense."

"Yeah? So there's not a chance…?"

"A chance of what? Explain yourself."

"Be my temptress? Lead me to the gates of Paradise?"

"And then kick you out of it. Now you're talking sense."

Kurtis grins and leans back on the bed, giving her a come-hither look. Lara places her hands on his chest and pushes steadily until he's lying flat on his back, meeting no resistance. She pauses, looking up at the ceiling as if inspiration might strike from above. "I shouldn't be doing this. You are a brute, and you'll never learn how to behave with a lady…"

"And here I was, hoping all along you'd drop that 'lady' bit…" he sighs theatrically. Under the heel of her hand his heart is beating quickly, hard. "Come to think about it, you don't even look like one most of the time."

"I don't?"

"I've seen you flying out of a sewage drain, of all places, you know? In Paris, after blowing out half of the Ghetto. Now, if that's ladylike behaviour…"

She straightens, somewhat stunned. "It was _you_!" Luckily, she recovers quickly. "Thanks anyway for coming over and helping me to put the fire out of my jacket…" And well, she might be sounding a bit distracted, but _you_ try to stay focused under these circumstances, the heat, and the silence, and his body now vaguely familiar and still unknown territory, foreign and dark.

"You were in the middle of a river, babe. I thought you'd have the common sense to jump into the water if things got too hot…" But he sounds even more distracted, like he's having trouble formulating the words, or breathing at all, and no wonder, by the idle way her mouth is wandering down his body.

"In the _Seine?_!" she pauses and fakes horror. "Have you any idea how filthy that water is? Had I done so, I'd be mutating into a winged monster now." It should be his line next, and he makes an effort, his chest heaving, and fails.

His fingers on her shoulder blade, following an old scar, deciphering a message in a coded language "You _are_ one. Monster…"

"Not winged."

"No."

"Stop squirming," she orders.

"I… can't. It tickles…"

* * *

"See? You're no lady…" 

"You know what _you_ are, Kurtis?" she purrs against his ear. "A worm."

"Hmm. Your worm…"

"And what do I do with worms?"

"You… shoot them." He mutters, sounding very drowsy.

Lara grins darkly to herself, hiding her face in his neck. "And waste my ammo? No, no, Trent." She bites his shoulder gently , and when his eyes flutter lightly, trying to focus on her, she whispers, and she means it: "I crush them… under my boot."

* * *

"Sshh…" she soothes him. Her breath is hot on his cheek. Her hands are doing… things, something, drawing circles on his skin, sliding up his arms, pinning him down. "Sshh" as if trying to lull a baby. Caressing. Damn it feels good. His lids are heavy with sleep. He teeters on the edge of it, not quite willing to wake up, not quite willing to miss the sweet awakening. He wants to touch her back, but his arms don't move. Can't move. Can't… 

"Fuck!" Fully there, he tries to sit up, nearly tearing his arms out of their sockets. What the hell is going on here?. He jerks his head back, to catch a glimpse of whatever is holding him down. Something shiny around his wrists. Jesus-fuckin'-Christ. _Payback_, shouts his brain. Payback.

"Lara." He tries to speak lightly. "What is this? Are you fixing me for some sort of kinky foreplay, or what?"

Crouching in front of him, she raises an eyebrow, and whatever is shining in her eyes, it isn't good, oh no, it is cold, and cunning.

"Or what, I suppose," she says at last. "You can't snap them open?"

"I can if I want," he bluffs, forcing himself to lie there absolutely relaxed. She smiles a humourless smile, tilting her head, eyeing him in deep concentration.

"Not as long as this is close to you-" and she lifts something from under the bed, in a quick flowing motion, and places it on his chest. His flesh quivers at the contact. Suddenly he understands that the former explorations must have included a good search of the well.

"Shit," he mutters, and gives up all pretense. "Lara, girl, come on. You don't want to do this."

"I don't?" she replies, distractedly, and getting up, starts collecting her clothes. "You shouldn't fight it. You'll just get hurt…" she comments, throwing him a look over her shoulder when he starts to struggle against his restraints. She pulls her backpack from under the bed, sits down, puts on her boots, moving fast and efficiently. "Not a coconut…" she speaks almost to herself.

"What?"

"I said, NOT a coconut. That mark on your head. Not a beer bottle. Not even a bloody _romantic._"

"No, wait, the coconut part, that was r-"

"Good attempt, though, I'll give you that."

"Lara, for fuck's sake. Think about what you're doing…" he stops, and changes his tactic. "If it's revenge that you want, OK, I can understand that. But you'll get yourself killed if you go at it alone. Trust me, just this once."

She snorts. "I trust you. But I still feel like teaching you a lesson. Just lie there like a good boy until I'm gone. You'll be your own self again when I'm far enough away, I gather, since I'm taking the Sanglyph with me this time." With great care she picks it up again and slides it into her backpack.

Now enraged, and making no more effort to hide it, he puts all his force into an attempt to summon his Chirugai, or knock her off her feet, and almost, _almost_ succeeds, although the pain in his brain is agonizing. As the wave of energy hits her, making her stagger back a few steps, her expression darkens.

"Do that again and I'll shoot you."

"You've been saying likewise for a couple of weeks now. I'm starting to believe it's just bravado. You're not going to kill me."

"Did I just say I'd kill you? No, you're right." She shakes her head, and retrieves her gun. She checks it, ejecting the magazine and slamming it back in, all her attention on this task. "I couldn't put a bullet between those pretty blue eyes of yours…" She turns and clasps a hand over his leg, while the other one shoves the weapon, hard and ruthless, onto his knee. "But I could put a bullet in there, for example. Not exactly a mortal wound, but a painful business all the same."

He glares at her, tempted to ignore the threat, not all that sure if finding out is worth the risk.

She grins and lets go, steps back, slides the pistol in her holster.

"Just a game, handsome. Consider it a deal. You lie there, I leave."

"Croft! You can't leave me here tied up!"

"I'll get the butler on my way out. But wait, there's a little problem…"

"A big one. No goddamn butler around." Utterly pissed off now, he dumps whatever remnants of faked calmness were still there. "I've had enough! You don't take these handcuffs off at once, I swear the minute I'm free I'll give you a spanking that you'll never forget!"

She laughs, shouldering her backpack "Do that. You'll have to catch me first, though, and that might be difficult, since I'm taking your motorcycle as well…"

"YOU DON'T TOUCH MY BIKE YOU CRAZY BITCH… Oh fuck! Oh god…"

"You think he's listening, Kurtis?" she cocks her head, listens, shrugs. "Bye, now!"

"LARA!" he screams. Her boots clattering down the stairs. A door slamming shut. He screams her name again and again, to drown the roar of the starting motorbike, flaring up and then receding, fast. He doesn't succeed.

* * *

Having used up every curse in his repertoire and more, his wrists chafed and bloody, he resigns himself to doing just as she told him. In the rapidly greying light outside, distant drumrolls of thunder. The air is cooling by the minute, heavy with dusk and approaching rain. He's cold, but welcomes the rain all the same. Hopefully she'll get drenched, wherever she is. Serves her right. He tries to ease the pins and needles in his strained arms by shifting position, but it's hopeless. Panting he drops himself down again and stares darkly at the stained ceiling. If it really starts raining, he'll get very wet himself, judging by the state of it. Quickly he amends his silent wish. 

In a shadowy niche above his head, half hidden by a discolored statuette of the Madonna, the sleepy owl is staring at him through the slits of its eyes.

"Ha ha. Hilarious, I know," he barks. The owl blinks. "Don't even think about it," he tells it. "I'm too big a number for you."

Unimpressed, the little bird makes a sudden plunge at him, and when he jumps, the handcuffs snap open with a little metallic click. He flaps his arms, in instinctive panic at the soft feathery touch brushing his shoulder, and rolls out of the bed. He stays still for a moment, undecided on where to start nursing himself, his aching shoulders, his wrists, his damaged ego.

"Fuck," he groans, covering his face. "Croft, you crazy bird…" The owl does an erratic turn in the air, returns to its hideaway, folds its wings, swaying on its claws like a little drunken sailor.

"_You won't be doing this journey alone, son_…"

_Yeah, and thanks so much. But you could have warned me about what kind of company you had in mind…_

He gets up, shaking his head, and dresses as fast as he can. By the door he turns and tells the owl, as an afterthought. "You keep hunting _alone_, if you value your peace, friend." The owl gives him a knowing look, and shuts its eyes. Kurtis could swear the thing is laughing at him. So he shrugs and laughs, too.

* * *

**A/N: If you're not familiar with that beautiful, erotic part of the Old Testament, you may want to read the original Song of Songs first. Trust me, it is worth the effort.**


	20. A knight's tour

**A KNIGHT'S TOUR**

…_Cover him with darkness, and let him abide there forever, and cover his face that he may not see light…_

But he sees the sun, and it burns his eyes. Water like a sheet of shattered glass, a silver mirror spiked with white doves, the sails of the vessels on Acre's bay. Blinded by so much light, he can almost think away the little clusters of buildings that have sprouted in the sleepy town at his feet and imagine it as it once was; a desert of glittering sand, and then the Phoenician boats, the dark skinned people that dwelt along the Nile, the robed Bedouins dreaming of water, _Outremer_'s last bastion…and them, the bearded, rough, dirty men in white capes, and the look on their faces when they saw him, _Lazarus rise and walk!_ And shining, he was, blinding like the sun's reflection on this little bay.

How long has it been? He doesn't remember, nor does he care. Time is cyclic; it has no beginning and no end, just like him.

He watches, absorbed, the world below. And wonders, not for the first time, at what stage those tiny black dots at his feet - God's beloved children, the irony - hurrying around, patternless and pointless, stopped seeing him.

That his kin should take the blame, hang their heads in shame, the only ones that ever reached out a helping hand…Branded outcasts, condemned to wander forever in this valley of shadows, they, who once shone so bright.

A few feet behind him, an illusion of a man sighs and dries his brow with a handkerchief. The madness radiating from him seems hotter in this merciless sun, a hazy scintillation, obscurity about to boil over.

He won't share his thoughts, and anyway, he has no one worthy of sharing them with. Certainly not Luther. Luther, what a name! A monk nails a list of rules to a church's door, and what happens - thirty years of war, blood by the bucketful. Oh, some things he remembers, all right. The screams, the fires, the crimson rivers. They don't know any better, they don't _deserve_ any better, the ungrateful black dots.

Of course, they fascinate Luther, with their childish games, their endless quest to grab the stars, keep them in a jar by the bed…and how they weep when they wake up and find that all that glitter has turned into dull sand. It could break your heart. It has broken his, no matter how much Luther would laugh at this.

"Phew," he says at his back, fanning himself, "all that water…"

Joachim smiles, barely. For someone who loathes liquid, Luther has spent his fair share of years cruising these very same waters in a Venetian ship - clad in silk and with two working eyes, back then.

The smile doesn't stick to his face. The breeze in his hair is like a woman's caress. And because he thinks this, he's sad. You put on humanity like a coat, and believe it'll be easy to discharge, whenever you choose to. And it's not. And then comes the loneliness, the longing, the jar full of sand. A woman's caress. A woman…

"Here they come," Luther seethes. "A moth to a flame, _mon petit frére_…"

Joachim nods. "Shall we climb down the mountain, then?"

And they look at each other, knowing this is just a figure of speech; they're standing on a humble rocky hill, surrounded by grazing goats, and the first mount is a few miles further East, but still…

"I think we'd better wait till it gets dark," the illusionist says. "All this light is driving me crazy."

XXX

"…in April 1291, Al-Malik Al-Ashraf Khalil, the follower of Sultan Baibars, besieged Acre. He had drawn together an enormous army, the chronicles speak of sixty thousand horsemen and one hundred and sixty thousand infantries. At the time, Acre had been in Christian hands for exactly a century and it was a real time bomb, where the different parties, Genovese and Venetian merchants and all the rival orders like the Templars, the knights of St. John and the Teutonic knights fought each other for control, each party trying to protect its own interests…"

_Well, if that isn't the history of humanity._ Utterly bored, Lara turns away from the little crowd and runs an idle hand over the wall, searching for creases or cracks that could signal an entrance. The tunnel is about three hundred and fifty meters long, and it ends in a solid wall of rock. A wooden footbridge has been built to keep visitors' feet from the shallow water that covers its floor.

"…At the time it was besieged, the city had a population of about thirty thousand civilians. Add to this some eight hundred knights and more or less fourteen thousand foot soldiers..."

_Talk about well balanced forces…_

"…but at least, a common enemy led the quarrelling parties to put aside their differences, if only for a short time. It was too late. They fought like berserkers, but Acre fell. The last Templars retreated into their citadel, prepared to fight up to the last man…"

She yawns. Despite the evident enthusiasm of the guide, a young girl with her head crowned by an impressive mass of red curls, she's finding it very hard to concentrate. For one thing, she's searched the whole bloody city without finding anything that could remotely pass for the entrance to a tomb. The Templars' tunnel, only come to light in 1994, is her last option. Still, there seems to be no trace of a passage leading anywhere else, a concealed door or something. But where there's a will, there's a way. If there isn't an entrance, she'll make one herself.

She pushes stray hairs out of her face. Bored, annoyed. At herself, at the gaping, overfed tourists, at the chirpiness of the guide…

"…the walls were already collapsing, but the Sultan, impatient, drove two thousand Mamluks into a final attack. Under the weight of so many men, the temple collapsed, burying both attackers and defenders under the debris…the Muslims razed the city and three hundred years were to pass before it was inhabited again."

She rubs her eyes, mainly to stop herself from doing something worse, something pathetic like wringing her hands, or worrying about Kurtis' whereabouts. Talking of which… isn't it about time he turned up? Although she tries her best to ignore it, she has a guilty conscience. Maybe something has gone awry. Maybe he wasn't able to free himself and is still lying somewhere in Italy, in an empty crumbling house, half dead with thirst and hunger and desperation. Alone…

_No no no. Don't even think about it. He is most definitely all right and planning a dreadful revenge this very minute…_

The guide's voice snaps her out of her reverie. "Madame. If you don't mind coming this way…You too, Sir."

The 'Sir' sets all her alarm bells ringing. She spins around, to find herself staring aghast into the bluest eyes ever. With a yelp, she makes to bolt, but not quickly enough to prevent his hand from closing over her own with an iron grip.

"Well I never! It's my very own runaway bride!"

She tries to wrestle her hand away, and he squeezes even harder, making her grimace with pain.

"Took you long enough," she hisses lowly.

"Got delayed." Kurtis gives the guide a dazzling smile and applies more pressure. Lara bites her lip to stop herself from whimpering. "_Where-is-my-bike_?"

"Sleeping with the fishes at the bottom of some Venetian channel" she replies venomously, but the increasing pressure on her hand makes her change her mind very fast. "In a parking lot in Triest, you idiot. Or was, last time I saw it. By now, some of it is probably _en route_ to Romania…Ouch!"

"Ma'am…?" says the guide.

She uses the distraction to elbow him with all her force. He grunts in surprise and she tears off, dashing past the startled guide and her entourage at amazing speed. Unfortunately, the exit is blocked by a very fat man into whom she crashes and bounces back, dizzied, while the equally fat female counterpart of her accidental airbag goes into an indignant litany about the "lacking in manners youth of today." The youth part in particular makes Lara want to punch her in the face, but by then Kurtis has caught her hand again and is maneuvering her deftly through the gaping little crowd, apologizing profusely.

"Excuse my wife. She's very excitable…"

"Let go of my hand."

"Stop 'squirming'. You're attracting attention."

"Let go or you'll regret it!"

He chuckles. "I'll regret it more if I let go."

"You're insufferable!"

"Old news." He throws her a sidelong glance, and grins. As much as she would like to wipe that grin off his face, she can't help bursting into laughter in turn.

"Oh, bugger. I can't believe that I'm actually relieved. You've turned up just in time." She shakes her head, still laughing. He squeezes her hand again, but a lot gentler.

"Didn't have enough cash for a plane ticket, so I had to use my imagination."

"Ha!"

"Ha yourself. Guess on whose account it's gonna be charged…" As she stops, rooted to the spot, he grins, and leaning closer, whispers into her ear, "With Winston's permission, of course…"

"That's it! I'll feed him…to the piranhas!"

"Hmm…" Looking around, he asks, suddenly serious. "Any sign of them?"

"The piranhas? Ow!...No. If they are here, they haven't been bothering me." He lets go of her hand. She inspects it, flexing her throbbing fingers. "I've found it."

"Found what?"

"The entrance. To your hall of fame."

"Good. Never doubted you would."

"It's wet, and dark, and brimming with big, fat rats."

"Even better. We'll feel pretty much at home."

"But we have to wait until this evening. There's still a few hours to go."

"Any suggestions…on how to spend the time?"

Lara rolls her eyes, but then, maybe she has a few. Check equipment, clean guns, discuss strategies, that kind of stuff.

_Of course. And pigs might fly._

XXX

Eerie, sorrowful, the muezzin's singsong echoes over the city, sun going down in a blaze of pink and orange, tinting with gold the water of Acre's bay. Time for prayers. If she still had a god to pray to, she'd join in.

"I could speed things up and shoot the lock." Kurtis reasons, running his hand along a bar of the gate closing the tunnel.

"And have the police all over the place? No thanks."

"You're making such a racket, that there's a fair chance that the police will be here in no time and haul our asses to jail."

"Mine, you mean, because you're just standing there doing nothing," she retorts with a furious glare. If she weren't so busy right now, she'd find a very different task for the crowbar.

He sighs. "Gimme that, will you." Brushing her aside, he puts all his weight on the crowbar, and the padlock snaps as if it were made out of dry wood. "There. What now?"

Instead of answering, she runs into the tunnel, and opening her backpack, starts pulling out a whole paraphernalia of things. She stops briefly, to catch a quick glimpse of his disbelieving face.

"_Dynamite?_!" he runs a hand through his hair, a picture of dismay. She grins and presses the detonator against his chest.

XXX

"Whoa!" He laughs, excitedly, brushing debris from his hair. "You call this finding an entrance?"

"I call it speeding things up."

He watches her out of the corner of his eye. There it is, that glow in her eyes that was the first thing he noticed. Cheeks sucked in, the no-nonsense rictus on her mouth. Whatever scared her off all this before was a terrible mistake, and couldn't last. Such a long way from the haunted, wary woman he witnessed in England, the withdrawn creature forlorn in the immensity of her mansion, the locked up princess in the ivory tower.

She's totally nuts, that much is true, but in little moments like this…

She puts out her hand, preventing him from running past her. "Before we go in, and just for the record. Who's in charge here?"

"Me, obviously," he answers proudly, just to piss her off.

"In your dreams."

"Why do you ask, then. Come on, you lead."

_Ah, fuck it. Why not._ In moments like this he almost loves her.

XXX

**A/N: Why, oh why, can't I use dividers anymore? Do I have to go back and change the format of all chapters I've put here? Does it matter? Why am I so obsessed? What's the meaning of life? Who else hates existential questions?** (brain explodes)


	21. Beauceant!

**BEAUCEANT!**

Sprawled on her stomach, she looks into the foggy depths of the chasm and gives a long, admiring whistle. "One thing we'll have to give your ancestors credit for…they certainly knew how to dig."

Kurtis' answer is a strangled sound, half grunt, half whimper. She turns her face to look at him, and grins. Even in this dim light she can see he's looking kind of green-faced.

"Shall I give you a boost?" she asks, delighted.

He shakes his head and crawls away from the abyss' edge, sits up, wipes his brow. "I'll be damned…"

"It's a long way down," she agrees, following him. "Oh, come on, Trent. You don't really suffer from vertigo, do you? You dropped from a second storey at the Louvre, cool as a cucumber, and _now_ you're making a fuss…"

Though still looking sick, he rises to the challenge. "It was either that or have you catch me. Seemed the less risky option at the time."

She laughs, and Kurtis jabs a finger at her. "And you tried to grab me. You thought I was going to break my neck. It was touching, the look on your face!"

"I wanted to break your neck myself." It isn't true. She remembers, the panic she felt when he let himself fall, one moment cheekily waving his Chirugai at her, the next, empty air where he'd been sitting, her fingers closing over nothing. "The Sanglyph really does you no good, hmm? No superpowers when it's around…"

"No superpowers," he admits, chagrined. "All my life, wishing I didn't have them, and now I find myself wishing I hadn't wished…"

"A classic case of the monkey's paw," Lara comments, nudging him. "Come on, you can tell me on the way down."

* * *

"Wow," she exclaims, lifting her face towards the far circle of light above their heads. "What a beauty…" and she laughs, ecstatic, spinning on her feet like a dancer, spreading her arms wide as if to absorb the empty immensity around her. 

Kurtis lets himself drop from the last ledge and stays hunched, his hands on his knees, trying to calm his breathing.

"It's not 'a beauty'. It's a fuckin' tomb!" he growls at last, wondering what's gotten into her.

She nods eagerly, folding her arms tightly around herself. "Yes. So beautiful…"

A gloomy Kurtis inspects a gash in his shirt where the fabric was torn by a sharp edge of rock. There must be a reason why he doesn't own a single shirt that doesn't sport some kind of hole. "You know what the problem with you is, Croft?" Wiping his hands, he prowls the circular hall, throwing quick anxious glances at its mossy walls, fading into dizzying heights. They've reached the bottom of the well, now it's all about finding what has really been hiding in the dark. "You're totally insane."

"Oh yes!" She smiles as if he'd paid her the biggest compliment ever. Which proves that a) this ain't Croft, but Karel in disguise, or b) this is just some kind of elaborate put-on. And because he has his reasons to believe the second option is the right answer, he decides to stay cool and bear it.

Kurtis stoops to examine a low crack in the wall, and flicking on the torch, points the beam of light into the winding tunnel. "Narrow…" he says, dubiously.

Lara kneels beside him and follows his gaze. "It'll do."

He bows with a flourish. "OK, then. Ladies first."

"And my knight has manners, on top of everything. I'm a _terribly_ lucky girl!"

"You've no idea how lucky…" he steps aside to allow her crawl in, "…because I'll push you whenever you get stuck…"

She stops and throws him a suspicious look over her shoulder. He raises his shoulders, spreading his hands wide with an innocent air that Lara doesn't buy for a minute. "I really hope for you that you didn't mean that the way I think you meant it…"

"Move, Croft."

Shaking her head, she creeps a few feet forwards. Behind her he chuckles softly. "Now, _that's_ a beauty…"

"What?"

"The view," he says, and for a second she's puzzled, until it dawns on her what view he actually means.

_And should he say a word concerning the view's size, I'll carve him into little pieces._

"You know what the problem with-" she starts.

"Are you stuck?" he asks, with so much hope in his voice that she briefly considers saying yes, so he'll come close enough for her to kick him in the face.

* * *

"Back! Go back!" 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing important. There's one of these funny men with swords out there. Pass me the shotgun."

"May I ask what you're trying to do, Croft?"

"I'm going to shoot it."

"Croft," he drawls, slowly shaking his head, "You can't kill him. He's already dead."

"You don't say! It slows them down, you'll see-" She aims and fires, and the skeleton staggers back with a satisfying clatter of bones, before straightening again, an enraged grunt coming from long decayed lips. She slides another bullet into the chamber. It takes usually three rounds to send them down, exactly three bullets if professionally done.

"You're wasting your ammo." Kurtis remarks behind her.

"I KNOW." She fires again. _Very _satisfying. They are so painfully slow, but they make up for it in perseverance. And the swords are no joke. "The only way to get rid of them for good is to lure them close to a pit. Then you kick them in and that's it. But _you_ try sticking your head out and going looking for some suitable hole…"

A third shot, and the dead knight turns into a heap of rags and mouldy armour pieces. She speedily crawls forwards, and is already half out of the tunnel when she realizes that Kurtis isn't following. This is the kind of thing that always reinforces her conviction that working alone has indeed many advantages. Annoyed, she looks back to see him with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Is he having a fit now or what?

"Gooowd…" a strangled mumble, muffled by the hands covering his face. He's laughing. Laughing! Lara is so mystified that for a moment she forgets where she is, and is brought back to reality, hard, by the swish of a sharp blade slicing the air. With a half scream she edges quickly back. Kurtis collapses on the floor.

"What!" she nudges him warningly with the tip of her boot.

"A p…p..pit! Sh…it!" he wipes his eyes and pushes her shotgun aside, trying to get a look at the thing awaiting them past the opening. There's nothing to it but to let him get a brand new haircut if that's what the fool wants.

He's still laughing so hard that Lara is not a bit surprised when the sword comes down again with all the force of a guillotine, aimed with deadly precision at his neck. At the last possible moment Kurtis manages to lift a shaky hand, and the dead knight's blow freezes in the air.

The unfairness of it will never fail to drive her up the wall.

Somewhat more collected, he rolls onto his back, his hand still risen as if to shade his eyes. But if it's his bloody telekinesis that's keeping the sword suspended in mid-blow, it isn't working properly, because after a second, the sword resumes its trajectory. Lara squeezes her eyes shut.

"Well, hello…" Kurtis says, and she cautiously opens one of her eyes. The sword is buried deep in the dirt, inches away from Kurtis' still laughing face. The skeleton steadies itself on it, squaring its inexistent shoulders, and a voice like the rustle of dry leafs fills the cave.

**"**_**Senher. Calquecop le pa que be quand las denses s'en soun anandos…"**

* * *

_

"You've been shoving Lux-Veritatis knights into pits! Holy shit, no wonder the Cabal kicked our ass…" he seems to find the thought hilarious, but Lara wonders if he's not being a tad too loud, and checks quickly that the dead knight following a few steps behind doesn't show any reaction.

"They weren't exactly friendly to me before, you know?"

"Well, I wouldn't be friendly to someone shooting at me either. Boy oh boy…"

Another knight materializes to her right, so uncannily close that her hand dives automatically to her holster. Kurtis places his hand on hers, just a moment, and cocks his eyebrows.

"All right." She desists grumpily. "Just tell your friends to stay away from me."

"Stay away from her," Kurtis tells the wraith. "She bites." And to Lara, "Do you always shoot everything that moves?"

"Obviously not," she retorts, glaring at him to remind him of what she's failed to shoot so far.

He smiles and continues walking. She quickens her pace to keep up with him, still astonished by the sight of the shadowy figures materializing around them. One, three, five… they're coming out of the walls, silent and spectral, dragging their swords behind, their rags splotched with rusty stains, old dried blood. Nine, twelve…

"Kurtis," she whispers, "there's more and more of them coming…"

"Just ignore them, Croft. They have more serious worries than the two of us."

"Do they?" They seem to be becoming more tangible by the minute, fleshing up, sockets filling up with long lost eyes; and as the faint memory of what they once were shrouds the sad bony frames like a trembling hologram, a ghostly rumble envelopes her, not quite there, not outside but inside her head, echoes of shouts and clattering swords. Even the broken pillars seem to be rebuilding themselves, stretching upwards like pleading hands, and she blinks hard to clear the vision away.

"_Beauceant_…" one of the apparitions gasps, gathering the tattered banner around him, and from every corner of the room the call is returned. _Non nobis, Domine_…

"Oh my God! Where are we?"

"In 1291, Lara." Kurtis' amusement seems to be vanishing fast. "They're gathering for their last fight."

On passing, one knight extends his emaciated hand, in a mute plea, and perhaps she never took a close look at the ghosts that have always haunted her, or she would have noticed how knowing, how sad their emptiness is.

"They're going to be massacred…"

"Yes," Kurtis speaks low, brushing away the offered hand, or maybe reaching out in a fleeting caress. "And so are we if we don't hurry." He searches for Lara's hand next, but she pulls away and plants her hands on her hips. Her hard eyes don't presage anything good, and Kurtis braces himself for confrontation.

"I don't like this. You said I need to distract Karel while you get rid of the Sanglyph..."

"So?"

"But you don't have a clue how you're going to do that…"

"I'll know when I see it," he answers flatly.

"Oh great! Simply great!" she throws her arms up. "And I'm supposed to chat Karel up while this whole bloody thing-" she gestures wildly to the ceiling "-crashes _on top of my head?_!"

"Ah, right, here it comes…" he mutters, exasperated. "Look, we're gonna do this and be out in a second, OK? And don't lose your sleep over Karel, he'd make mincemeat out of me, but you, he won't touch."

"I'm not worried about Karel, it's the other one I'm thinking about!"

"Ah, Luther, yeah." Kurtis' eyes shift nervously. She's noticed before that if there's one thing he won't talk about, that's the black man, and so far she's refrained from probing into what she senses is an open wound. But he's right about Karel, or so she hopes. Truth is, Karel had plenty of time and opportunity to harm her, and he didn't. For all those green bolts he threw at her to stop her from destroying the Sleeper, she knows somehow that if his heart had been in it, she wouldn't have stood a chance. But Rouzic in turn… a dark horse, an unknown quantity. No, she isn't liking this. Not a bit.

Kurtis halts abruptly and turns to her. "If he gets near you, look for water."

"For water?"

"Yeah. Just water."

"Oh. He doesn't like water?" She puts her hand to her forehead, suddenly remembering, and wonders if she ought to laugh or cry.

Without further word, he tries to push forward, but Lara catches his arm.

"Hold on there, Mr. Smith. Why don't we just flood this place and have done with, then?"

He opens his mouth to answer, and then, all the irritation seems to vanish from his face, as fast as it first appeared. "All Karel would have to do is shapeshift into a piranha. And someone would probably catch him and keep him in an aquarium…"

Lara frowns. "That's stupid."

"Yep." He tries not to laugh.

She sighs. "Here I am, running around in a tomb, and without no idea what I'm supposed to do…"

"Lara, your sense of timing really stuns me. You had your moment for questions. In Italy… earlier today…"

"Like I can think clearly when you're around…" she grumbles, and realizes two heartbeats later what she's just said. She presses her lips into a hard line before her riotous tongue decides otherwise. Kurtis casts her a smug look.

"Ouch. Bitter pill to swallow, admitting that."

"Nonsense." She dismisses him, stubbornly raising her chin up.

He walks on in silence for a minute or two, and then says, "Do I make you feel like that?"

"No," she lies, and is annoyed that it's so clearly a lie. All his attention is on her now, his eyes watching her face closely. Not even under torture would she admit how he makes her feel…weak, giddy, breathless. She must have been delirious when she decided she could beat him at his own game.

He grins, but doesn't say anything else. It's a relief. To change the subject, she addresses the matter that's been on her mind ever since her conversation with Patrick. "The Egyptians believed that a man's name equals his soul. Knowing his name gives you power over his fate."

"Wise, but I don't know what Karel's name is. For them," he signals the ghostly shapes around them, "he was just the Baphomet."

"Knowledge, yes." She says quietly. "And what is _your_ name?"

"Kurtis."

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks for being so forthcoming! Kurtis what?"

A second passes, and she thinks he's not going to answer. But then he says slowly, "You want power over me?"

Her stomach does a crazy series of clumsy cartwheels and falls flat on its nose. Before she can think of a reply Kurtis turns around and facing her, he places both his hands on her shoulders, and gives her a long, searching gaze. "Because you've plenty of that, already." And then he drops his hands and walks away, just like that.

Lara swallows. "And I'm the one with bad timing…" she calls after him.

He shrugs, not turning. Two seconds later she realizes she's been sidetracked again, and as she's pondering the best way to bash his smug head in, he stops again. In front of them is a wide archway, blocked.

Among the sad truths her lonely raids have taught her, one often summarises it all: the path may be the right one, but the door at the end is always closed.

* * *

**A/N: Amazing! The ruler tool is back!**

**On a different note, I want to apologize to my dear beta for altering it all again. Although she's the one to blame, since she pointed out the legendised Lara here... Sorry for both things, then. Don't hit me with a coconut, OK?**

**Oh yes, and then, here we have some more Occitan. In English, _"Sometimes the bread arrives when the teeth are long gone."_**

**That's all, folks. Drop me a couple of reviews and I'll treat you to the next chapter, which is already written, proofed, and dying to be posted!**


	22. To steal from a thief

**TO STEAL FROM A THIEF**

"Oh, damn. You sucker!"

"Excuse me?"

"Not you! This! Have a look! End of the road, finis, we don't get past here…!"

"No," she sighs, shrugging philosophically at the massive stone panel with its faded, engraved letters, blocking their way. "Unless we solve a riddle." She yawns, stretching like a cat, and placing her backpack on the floor, starts searching inside for whatever will help kill some time.

"Son of a bitch," Kurtis seethes through clenched teeth, rubbing his neck frantically. "I knew this was bound to happen!"

Lara casts him a guarded look and selects a chocolate bar out of her baggage. "Did you, now."

"I don't have the code for this. I meant to pick it up in Paris, but then… ah, forget it!" Mightily annoyed, he gives the closed door a look of pure hatred. Lara goes to stand at his side and studies the scratched inscription.

**S A T O R**

**A R E P O**

**T E N E T**

**O P E R A**

**R O T A S**

"It's a _Sator_ square, an old charm against evil. It's a palindrome of sorts. You can read it in any direction you want and you always get the same: _Sator arepo tenet op_…"

"I know what a Sator square is, Sherlock," he interrupts her, impatient. "If you bothered having a look at it instead of munching away at your chocolate, you'd maybe realize that there's more than a hundred different ways to combine those letters. It'd take us…a couple of weeks, more or less."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm exaggerating," he mimicks her. "Step back."

"You want to blast _that_?" She opens her eyes wide, making an effort not to laugh. "Don't want to use your brains, for a change?"

"Jesus, Croft, would you just eat your chocolate and _shut up_! I need to concentrate!"

She leans meekly against the furthest wall, licking her chocolate-smeared fingers.

Kurtis takes a deep breath and lifts his arm, palm turned outwards. A blast of energy zings from his straining brain to his fingertips, slams against the stony door, is immediately rejected and bolts back onto him, meeting him squarely across the chest and sending him stumbling backwards. "DAMMIT!! Jesus-fuckin'-Christ!! Damned thing won't even BUDGE!!"

"Now, now. Language won't get us anywhere, Mr. Smith…" she starts rummaging in her backpack again, while Kurtis tugs at his dishevelled hair, still swearing at full speed under his breath.

"Among the many things I collect, I have a few stelae. Funerary stones. Have you ever heard of the Stenay stela, by chance? Bet you have. Stenay, that's in France."

She steals a fast look at his profile, and registers with satisfaction the sudden tension in his shoulders. "Quite the sensation in the archaeological world, I tell you. It contained a code, but no one knew for what exactly, although everyone assumed it was the key for the Merovingian treasure, of course. Which in a way it was, I suppose, only we were all digging in the wrong place…"

Kurtis has grown perfectly still, but for a muscle in his jaw, pulsing with a crazed rhythm. "Well, anyway, it was stolen, shortly after. Not by me, mind you…" Retrieving another bar of chocolate, she offers it to him, but he refuses it with an angry gesture. Shrugging, she starts tearing the foil wrapping. "Now, Stenay is located on an imaginary meridian, a so-called 'Roseline'. Ring a bell, Watson?"

Now he turns, slowly, mouth agape.

"…and, as your French is a lot better than mine, now you tell me a different name for that roseline…"

"_Le Serpent Rouge_…" he whispers, his eyes fixed in astonishment on the thing she's holding out, not a bar of chocolate but an elongated chip of stone.

"Aha. Bright boy." Lara smirks. "I _told_ you I knew things that could be useful to you."

"Where the hell did you find _that_?!!"

"Under your bed, sweetheart."

"Under my… " he echoes her sheepishly. "No! At the manor?!"

"Uh-huh."

"Under my…Holy shit, Croft! You…" he shakes his head, such a storm brewing on his brow that Lara cracks up. His frown becomes even deeper. "_Oh-kaay_. Fair play to you. Where did you first get it, though? _Before_ you put it under my bed, that is?!"

"Why, I'm just about to tell you. There I was, minding my own business, trying to find a contact who would provide me with some very badly needed equipment, when I was directed to this Café, you know, filthy little place. Sad customers, as well, the kind that start the day drowning their sorrows in a bottle of wine…"

Kurtis presses his fists against his eyes. "Ah, no, this can't be true!"

"Oh well, and next, that loser of an owner asks me to retrieve something, something he had allegedly hidden in a club named…"

"Stop it, stop it, please. I get it now." He snatches the bar from her hand. "You're not only a magpie, a wrecker and a secretive little bitch, but a thief as well…"

"Hmm, you forgot arsonist," nods a very smug Lara. "I had a _very _good teacher. Go on, give it a try."

Kurtis turns the stone plaque in his hands, fuming. "I'm going to shoot the little crook," he mutters, while angrily punching the keys in.

S, R, P… She lifts an eyebrow. "Shoot who?"

"Can you believe it?! He told me the bouncer had taken the wretched thing and done a runner!"

"Oh. You mean Pierre."

"Yeah. Jesus in the craphouse! And I bought it!"

She laughs, nodding, and pats his shoulder. "Well, if it's any consolation, just think of his face when he opened that box and found a bar of chocolate…"

* * *

"Don't," she says quietly, as he steps forward. He looks at her questioningly, and for an answer she just signals the wide tiles of the chequered floor spread out before them. "It's a trap." 

"How do you know?"

"I don't," she shrugs. "It's… well, call it a sixth sense. Stepping on some of those slabs would be an unpleasant experience."

"We'll never know unless we tr…" She pulls him back just in time to stop him from stepping on the nearest square, and wide-eyed they watch the tile crumble with a roar. A wave of heat slaps their faces, a sudden burst of flames that avidly lick the cracked edges before receding again.

"Oh-oh, OK…" Kurtis blurts, precariously balanced on the edge. Lara lets him go and studies the room, narrowing her eyes. Besides her, Kurtis gulps for air and says in a weak voice: "Thanks."

She nods distractedly. "What do you make of it?"

"Er…a chessboard?"

"Sixty four squares… sixty four scattered stones…Horus'eye…" she murmurs to herself. Suddenly she shakes, as if coming out of a trance. "Jump over there!"

"Ah, no. Why me?" Kurtis takes a step back, alarmed.

"Because," she answers, gathering all her patience, "if I do and it happens to hold my weight, that won't mean that it'll hold yours."

He looks as if he's about to protest, so Lara adds: "Besides, you're the knight."

"Fair reasoning…"

She holds her breath as he jumps, diagonally, landing neatly two blocks ahead. The floor holds. She exhales, and Kurtis turns and dedicates her a wide grin. She grins back, and that's all the encouragement he needs to attempt the next jump.

"Ha!"

"Don't start tap dancing on that, Kurtis. It doesn't look steady enough and if it breaks…"

"Don't sweat it, my dove. I won't fall down."

"I wouldn't mind if you did," she points out dryly as she jumps to the first safe square. "But it'd be a hell of a leap if one of those were missing…" She signals him to clear the slate he's standing upon, so she can move onto it. As he jumps to the next, without a shadow of hesitation, Lara narrows her eyes. "Whatever happened to 'I can't play chess'?"

"Never said I couldn't. Just said I hated it. Nice jump."

"Winston has never beaten _me_."

"Maybe he lets you win to humour you. Can't be nice, to spend your days in a fridge."

She'd truly love to push him and see how he burns to a cinder. Maybe later.

* * *

One by one, as he glides by them, they fall to their knees, bow their heads. They don't remember for how long they've been battling, but maybe they still know why they chose to stay and fight a lost war. What was more vital than survival, more crucial than redemption, worthy of an eternity in hell. _Elohim_! 

The fallen one doesn't dignify them with a single glance. Sovereign, calm, he walks among the kneeling dead. He's thinking of a city ablaze, fading in the distance while he watches this pocket-sized Armageddon from the bow of the last Venetian ship fleeing the burning harbour.

Humans can resist temptation better than you'd think them able to, and this makes demons despair. It's a mere handful who falls, blinded by greed, and curiosity, and wantonness. Such as the one who would fall to his own visions of power later; he had survived the fires of Montségur and the self-righteous Inquisition, and sought refuge under the wings of the most powerful order of the era. An order that homed scholars and fanatics, poets and mercenaries, that listened to the ones who knew more –the Assassins, the Rabbis, the Heresiarchs; that learned more secrets than any human Cabal can keep; celebrated by the troubadours of the time, endowed by monarchs and warlords, worshipped, feared and hated; in possession of the knowledge that truth is only to be found if you know where to dig. And dig they did, a well of souls, and lost their own.

No home for a lost soul but a tomb, no time but eternal waiting. Who would have thought that the day of judgement would take so long to arrive?

And he, he went back among the living, and roamed the earth in search of his kin, and found himself alone. Or not - worse, he found that a few drops of blood had survived, winding their way through the underground streams of spiralling DNA, always weaker, always frailer. Worse still, that the once proud bearers now believed it a curse, an abomination to be deleted by time and history, as if there really were a chance of redemption in the purifying heat of a greater light, not the deceiving flickering flame of a withering candle.

"You found _me_, and you should sing in praise," the illusionist hisses, straining each 's' with his parted tongue. "You have no one else, like it or not. Or do you think I really enjoy watching over you? I had six thousand years of quiet solitude, and now, now, in my old age, that I must exert my poor old bones just to protect you, you stupid useless empty cup!"

"Watch your words, or I'll relieve you of that burden by removing your other eye, Luther."

"Ah, will you spare me the Luther this, Luther that! Sick of it, I am! Call me by my _rightful _name, the one I bore by the banks of the Tigris, the one that silly king…"

"Hush!" Joachim bids him, extending an imperious hand. "Listen, you fool!"

The black man cocks his head, a black iridescent marble rolling in a casket of lily-white bone. "Aah, yesss. Just like I said…" He throws his head back and lets loose a cackle that would make flesh crawl if a being of flesh and blood were listening. But those around him now are stripped to the bone, they are nothing but shadows. And bone doesn't cringe at the squalid hand hovering over the bowed skulls, imparting its mocking blessing like a bishop in a cassock of blood. "My children, my children, stand up, my lambs, do not fear your Master builder, my little, little lambs…"

"_**Praeclarum custodes, ovium lupum**_!" Karel comments, his pale lips stretching in an ironic smile, deliberately using the language his former custodians can grasp. "You can have him, but she is mine, understood? Don't you dare go near her!"

"Me?!" Luther screeches, and for once, his horror is genuine. "Wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole!"

"Good. And, Luther… bring him back to me first. She wants a revelation, I'll give her one. But should you play one more of your tricks on me, I'll make sure you spend the rest of your days in a _pond_."

Joachim Karel floats away into darkness, to his promise of heaven, but his voice lingers back behind him like the deep reverberation of a bell.

"Go in peace, Elohim!" the illusionist calls brightly after him. Then he turns and crouches next to the nearest kneeling figure, and sneers. "Who in hell does he think I am, _my brother's keeper?_!!"

* * *

They're halfway through their knight's tour when Kurtis' head jerks up. He looks around, his upper lip curled into a snarl. Lara glances back, but the way they came is in shadow, only broken by the flickering red glow where the first tile collapsed. Ahead, the white squares float in the darkness; the black ones are just voids. 

"Are they here?"

"Yeah."

"Can you feel them?"

He nods, absently, still watching the darkness beyond her.

"Can they feel us?"

"Hurry," he answers in a whisper.

"I can't if you don't move to the next!" she points out. They are standing two rows away from the end of the board. She can make out the black mouth of another corridor ahead, maybe steps. She leaps, and the second her boots connect with the floor she knows her luck has run out. She flails her arms, trying to regain her balance, and thrusts herself forwards, crashing into his chest. For a split second she can see right into his eyes, watch his pupils widen with fear, and the next moment something takes hold of her body, propelling her like a rag doll towards the open gape ahead.

She lands clumsily, stumbles and pivots, in her ears the terrible thunder of the floor caving in. Someone screams, and it takes her a moment to realise it is herself. She falls to her knees, sick with premonition, and a fiery tongue shoots up at her, instantly singing her eyelashes.

"I'm OK, I'm OK!" He's hanging from the remains of one of the standards that decorate the wall, spread-eagled, many feet underneath. His face is a pale oval, his voice panic-stricken.

"Climb up!" she shouts. The heat down there must be unbearable. She half expects him to go up in flames any moment, the amazing human torch, and that rag doesn't look like it's going to support his weight much longer. He fumbles with it, trying to find a hold for his feet on the wall, and the fabric, untouched for centuries, rips a little. Lara screams again. He'll never make it up here. He's going to fall into the boiling lava, just like she wished him to.

"There's a doorway here, behind me," he calls, barely daring to look over his shoulder. "Right under where you're standing!"

"There's one here as well. It's way too far to jump, Kurtis. You're not going to make it, not with a backflip!"

"An optimist! Lara, I'm being fried here. Hang on…"

He can't, he can't… but he makes it. Lara drops her forehead to the floor and wills herself to start breathing again.

Somewhere under her ledge he calls out. "We have a problem, Mrs. Smith..."

"We have many of those," she rubs her eyes furiously, hoping it's just sweat that's troubling her vision. "But I take it you mean that you can't make it up here again…?"

"Well…"

She hangs her head over the edge and meets his upturned face, a tentative smile. "I'm sorry!" she calls wretchedly.

He nods. "Go in there and try to find a way down. I'll see if this leads up somehow, OK?"

She looks over her shoulder at the passage. Above it, a lapidary word is carved on the rock. _**Coelis**_. She sniffs, wiping her nose on her arm, and looks down again.

"Looks like I'm going to heaven and you're going to hell, Kurtis."

"It figures." He grins reassuringly at her, but the smile is forced. "Toss me the Sanglyph and go."

She unlatches her backpack, takes it out and drops it down into his outstretched hands.

He waves her off, but instead both stay there, looking at each other. He shifts on his feet, looks shortly away, then lifts his eyes again to her own. "Are we even, Lara?"

"I don't know," she answers truthfully. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

She nods. She's unwilling to leave like this, part without a good-bye, but it's not like she knows what to say. "I wish you'd never lied to me…"

"I… never did, Lara. Not speaking about…certain things… isn't the same as lying. Some things…" he stops, looks away. "Would have changed everything. And I didn't want it to change. Not yet…"

He's got such beautiful eyes, she thinks sadly. Sometimes, looking closely, you can almost see the trapped child inside.

"Some things you know, dontcha?" He brings his hand to his forehead and flicks his hair back, exposing the scarred patch of skin where his hairline begins. "It's a birthmark," he whispers.

"Yes," she mumbles, heartbroken. "I know. Your Cain mark."

He lets the hair fall, covering his darkest secret, and looks away. "My father's name was-"

"You don't have to tell me," she cuts him off. "But there is one thing I want to know."

"Ask."

"Did it ever cross your mind to… leave me there?"

Kurtis closes his eyes, breathes deep, and when he opens them again, they are as empty, as blank as always. "Yes."

Lara nods slowly. Some truths are hard to look in the face, until you do. And then they just cease to matter. But it matters being able to face them. "But in the end you didn't."

"No. I didn't."

"It must mean something."

"It does."

She smiles, shaking her head, and pushes herself up to her knees again. "Don't die."

She watches his shoulders tense, and after a moment he says quietly, "Only by your hand, Croft. Maybe you can keep that in mind."

"Then don't do anything I wouldn't…"

"Wrong. I'd better not do anything you _would_." He grins faintly. "Enjoy heaven. Though I can't figure out why they'd let _you_ go in there…"

_Well, really. Why indeed_. She laughs. "Heaven isn't what it used to be. They let all kind of fools in these days."

* * *

**A/N: _"Praeclarum custodes..."_ "An excellent protector of sheep, the wolf"**

**A long chapter, huh? With a couple of Jordyesque Easter eggs too (in the hope that she doesn't mind...) Some Nephilic goodness, some Latin...**

**To put the Sator square in a proper format proved to be an impossible task. A real one should be shaped like a perfect _square_, of course.**


	23. The stone the builder rejected

**THE STONE THE BUILDER REJECTED**

Years back, his father used to call him stubborn, and 'stubborn' did not rank very highly in Konstantin's list of knightly virtues.

Kurtis disagrees. With her gone, he only has his stubbornness to drive him on. And his fear.

No, shit, no. He's spent thirty one years in fear; he's not going to dig into that any further. There's no going back now. He has a new banner to follow, black and white, in light and shadow, and for this one he'll die, if he has to. Or live. Maybe even live.

A million hammocks in the sun could not match this discovery.

He knew it when he saw the same fear flare in her eyes, and wow, wasn't she quick to hide it. When she realised what this was, this gap in time, and what it meant to be here, on the eve of destruction, a perfectly timed collective suicide. And she never called him what he deserved -a piece of shit, pulling her into this… _but it wasn't me, Lara, I never planned it like this_ - and never named her fear either, the one he knows and understands so well. Dying, that's no big deal. When you've died once, and again, and you still find yourself breathing, and running, and hurting, a bigger beast shows its ugly visage behind the more human fear of temporality: that Death has forgotten you. Doesn't want you. That you're stranded in hell.

Not being _able_ to die is an exquisite terror.

A legacy of blood.

Because this is all it comes down to, isn't it. Because daddy dearest, born sometime during the 1400s -picture that- still looked like friggin' forty-something the day he died, the day his once buddy and brother-in-arms Pieter van Eckhardt (the artist formerly known as Aicard; one of the things they all had in common was a knack for meaningful names) finally released him, and right, Kurtis wasn't there, but he'd bet his ass on it. It freaked Marie out; it freaked _him_ out, once he was old enough to grasp what the deal was. And the biggest joke is that, compared to, for example, Vasiley, Konstantin was a spring chicken. A newcomer, so to say. And he himself is really a 1972 vintage, and the last, for now and forever (thank God for small mercies). But give him a couple more centuries, and he'd be your average fucked up Highlander. He'd 'rule', screw it, ain't that a riot.

Well, how do you think a man can get skewered by an insect's sting (in at the back, out at the front, and _Bon Voyage_ to half his stomach plus several yards of intestine) and walk out of the hospital nine weeks later, like that's nothing to write home about? He'd really pay to see what the good doctors wrote on those medical reports.

… _didn't have a choice. You can say it's unfair for the sins of the fathers to be visited upon the sons, stored up in the genes like a disease, but fate doesn't give a damn whether you think it's fair or not. There's no place in this world you could run to, believe me, 'cause I tried once, too. Stop running and grab this banner, this chance, for it's the only one you'll ever get. Ne t'en enfuit pas!... _Konstantin wrote.

_And you were all wrong, dad. I do have a choice. This is my banner_.

For all the years of stubbornly denying fate, in the rich soil of the deep heart's core, the seed of doubt, planted at too early an age, has dug powerful roots.

But now, this immense tree has a new name, that sounds like fate but spells differently, and perhaps, perhaps this time the doorman shall fling the gates open, and let him in. Providing Lara's gotten it right, and they ain't being picky, anymore.

* * *

Not having any clear notions of what she expects to find, Lara decides this rendering of heaven isn't inappropriate, although it certainly makes her insides churn with dread. 

_And I swore I'd never look at one from the inside again. Looks like the joke's on me, then._

All the memories that rush back at her…they make her heart heavier than lead. This heaven is an exact copy of the tombs in Rostau, those chambers under the lion's paws where the hearts of the dead are weighed. And with a heart so heavy, no wonder she was found unworthy once, by those ancient gods. So mysterious and terrible that they must wear the faces of beasts -the jackal, the camel, the hawk - when they are not hiding behind the shape of the most evil of all creatures, man.

For as numerous as the forms of light are, so darkness has many skins, and over the years she's peeled off a few, to reveal the truest face in the mirror. The burnt, scarred face of evil, marked by the self-inflicted damage that always, without fail, it blames on others; unrepentant and indifferent, blind even to the motion of the own hand rising to pluck out its hateful eye. For evil is just that: the blamer, the finder of fault. "I alone," it cries, "possess all wisdom, I alone know it all!" and in its immeasurable arrogance, it claims every sin and believes itself pure.

_And doesn't that sound familiar, mein Fräulein?_ Werner's bitter voice thunders in the caves of her mind.

She presses her lips together hard and her eyes roam the chamber, quickly assessing its settings. It's a room of humble dimensions, the only distinctive feature is the vaulted ceiling, a darkened cupola from where all the stars of the sky are shining down on her risen face. They are not placed randomly; a closer inspection shows the constellations, the pretty patterns, the naïve depiction of a remote universe where every star could be the eye of a watchful god. The smooth walls offer little cover, but touch reveals their dampness, the nearby sea obstinately carving a way in through the centuries. And really, it's quite consoling too that a tiny stream of water encircles the little mound in the middle. The Egyptians knew how to bind a god, after all, and they handed this knowledge on, for the time mankind would cease to believe in such a thing as gods. Give him nothing but an empty space, let him abide forever watching the movements of the stars, the paths of the planets, mercury for Hermes, iron for Mars, gold for the Sun… and ether, a radiant bubble for earth, a god's most treasured little toy.

She slowly climbs the lonely mount; she lifts her hands to detach the shiny sphere from the darkness above. "And I saw a star from heaven which had fallen to the earth; and the key of the bottomless pit was given to him. And he opened the pit; and smoke went up out of it, and out of the smoke came forth locusts upon the earth; and power was given them, as the scorpions of the earth have power…" she throws back her head, and laughs, her voice rising to a scream, and who cares if she sounds like one of those mad street preachers, "and they were told that they should not hurt the grass of the earth, nor any green thing, nor any tree, but only the men who do not have the seal of God on their foreheads…" her voice breaks.

_And I opened that pit, of course I did. I messed with time. I tipped the balance, I freed their spirits. I saw the locusts, and the scorpions, and the faces of gods. And I lied; I felt no pity. Not then, not now. I only felt rage._

_Like you, Werner. Just like you._

She has every right to be angry, does she not? Because she knows how this ends, and she hates that knowledge. She hates it, and she is angry. "And men will seek death and will not find it, and they will long to die and death flees them…" fiercely clutching the world in her hands, she defies the darkness, her voice dripping venom. "Show yourself to me, Horus. It's time we met again."

* * *

He waits, flexes his fists, lovingly strokes the butt of his pistol -a foolish reflex, bullets utterly useless here, but a gun is still comforting, cool, solid, a memento of another reality. All his perception already poised on the next moves, senses sharpened to horrible clarity, visualizing Luther's silent approach. The whirring of a million insects descending on the crops. Too close to skin, the Sanglyph throbs, viscous, determined to find a way in, undeterred by the screaming cells, cringing in horror at the irrepressible assault of an older blood.

"I know you're here. Come out now," he whispers, although he'd rather yell. "Get your sorry ass over here, Asmodai, you fucking bastard…"

A chuckle answers him, low, nearly inaudible for human ears. "My boy…" the illusionist answers, detaching himself from the inky shadows. "What an unfriendly greeting for the only ally you have left…"

"As if you were taking sides just out of the kindness of your heart. Once a traitor, always a traitor."

"An interesting choice of words, coming from you, Kurtis, but actually, you are mistaken. I love my Jachin, always did, but he's not strong enough anymore. He believes he can steer the world, but me - I just enjoy watching how the world steers itself into destruction…"

"Jesus, what a load of shit. You just play meek because we tricked you, ages ago. Made you our slave. A trickster, tricked. That must have been a sore one."

Luther fixes his cold pupil on his opponent, assessing him. "Well… it was more 'divide and reign' I'd say. And I did my job perfectly, didn't I. I built a temple for a king's pride, and I even warned him, 'all due respect, my king, but this glory of yours is temporary, thy kingdom shall be divided, for you don't know the name of the angels that rule over you'. But human memory is so short, two thousand years go by and here they come again, the little maggots, opening tombs that are meant to stay closed. And so on, over and over again, _ad nauseam_." He stops, his long fingers twitching, and Kurtis watches, in fascination, the white bubble of froth in the corner of Luther's mouth. "And guess who did it last time? No other than your oh so -"

"I know."

"Oh, you know. And don't you know that such misbehaviour deserves punishment? Your daddy wouldn't have let her get away with it. None of the brethren would have."

Kurtis shrugs. "I'll make my own choices."

"That's what you think? Dream on, then, because you don't have any. The choice is rather simple: you can walk away now and keep whatever's left of your humanity, or you can be the keeper, the scion, the proud heir of our blood. Either way I win, and either way she's lost."

Kurtis tears his gaze away from the illusionist's marred face and looks up, his face not giving away anything. But his very personal demon understands quite well the complex forces, the undercurrents that tear apart a man's soul, and Luther just loves pulling at the strings. He slides closer, almost casually.

"Ah. _Le coup de foudre, folie a deux_. You grew quite sweet on her, didn't you. Me, I did not like her much. Can't imagine what Jachin saw in her; he must think all his stale blood needs is some refreshing, the poor fallen thing. But I must admit she's been useful bait, and quite obstinate too. Part of me was wondering if she would not kill you somehow."

"Well. As you can see, she didn't."

"Makes one marvel, yes. How much does she know?"

"She suspects some."

"Hmm. Any little angels on the way?"

Kurtis laughs. Trust Luther to taunt him like this. "Wouldn't rely on it."

"Well, in some ways, that's a pity. A much simpler method than digging up half of Turkey to unearth a heap of dry bones, wouldn't you say. More pleasurable, at any rate - not that I would know, the daughters of men never were my cup of tea…"

"No, they weren't. Little boys were, right."

"Someone's still angry. Very angry. You know, Kurtis, anger is a bad, bad counsellor. Angry people don't see past the curlicues. Take Pieter, the old fool. He was an angry man if I ever saw one. Revive the Nephilim, ha. Rule the world, ha ha. We were hardly able to rule ourselves at the best of times, and there never were that many of us to start with, were there? Like two is company -granted, bad company- but three, that's a multitude. Makes the world seem positively overcrowded…"

Kurtis turns abruptly back and straightens. "OK. Do it."

"Do what, sonny?"

"Finish what you started, all those years ago. Wake up what's been sleeping. If I can't beat him, at least I'll have the satisfaction of watching how he gouges out your other eye."

Luther doubles over with shrill laughter. "Atta boy. That's the spirit, your daddy would be so proud! I just hope he's somewhere out there, watching you."

"He's not, but a lot of the others are."

"Oh yess, I've seen them. All my little lambs, kneeling in reverence…"

"Not to you."

"Not to me, true. But soon, my son." He dips his hand into the melted seal and his bloodied fingers commence their deathly dance across Kurtis' pale face. "Here, let me anoint you. _In hoc signo vinces_… Rise and shine, my boy, rise and shine for me now, prince of darkness."

* * *

**A/N: Few things are harder than reviving an old fic. But try I did. As for OTT cryptic-ness: that's what Google's there for.**


	24. 2001 Nights

**2001 NIGHTS**

Angels tread softly, a thousand can dance on a pin's head and the air wouldn't stir; but this one, he rushes in. Time might be everlasting, but a second's distraction can make you fall, and he, he's no fool.

Slowly, Lara lifts her head from her contemplation, and smiles. That he'd don this face for their last confrontation doesn't surprise her too much. At least it's better than facing Werner's again. "If you really were that face's owner, I'd ask: How was hell?"

He laughs low, tilting his head to one side and giving her a full view of his profile. "And I'd answer truthfully. Boring. Long."

"In spite of all your friends being there?"

"I never had any. All I had were lackeys, and rebellious children. And yes, they are all there, and can't get out." His eyes travel to her hand, the one closed firmly over the butt of a gun, then to the other, balancing the world. "You look like a queen."

"The metaphor would work better if I had a throne to sit on…" she grins, waving him over. "I'm the queen, Trent's the knight, and you are… what are you, do you think?"

"The rook, the white tower, the pillar that faces east - you name it. And, talking of metaphors," he says, while carefully circling the dark gorge opening at their feet, "you shouldn't play with that. It breaks quite easily…"

"Oh, you know me. Give me something that shines, and oops. Can't help it." She lifts the sphere and lets it rotate once over the abyss.

"I said, 'to rule the world', not 'to juggle' with it. Give that to me, Lara."

"Not so fast, my dear," she laughs. "I have the puzzle almost put together, and this pretty thing here, this 'eye' I've found could come handy. We don't want a little bird flying blind, I think. At least I don't." With the muzzle she traces the line of his jaw, watching the dark hair spill over the metal as he leans in, testing the strength of her grip, or in acceptance of this odd caress. "Drop that face, Joachim. I know who you are. When I look at you, all I see is a blank slate."

"I'm only showing you what you want to see. And bullets can't kill me, Lara."

"I know. Slow you down a bit, maybe, but kill you, no. Well…" She lowers her voice to a whisper. "Quite brave of you to come back here, to the place where you slept so long…"

He waves a dismissive hand. "A hundred years, a blink of an eye. The bad part came later. The aftermath. To watch what you've created and realize its imperfection."

Lara snorts. "And here's where the wish for a benign new order comes in, I suppose."

"You," he says coolly, holding a hand over the hole at their feet, admiring the glowing brand marring the white skin, "are a very vexing woman. And your sarcasm is completely out of place. You know your history; is there anything in it that makes you believe my rule could be worse than the one your kin has asserted so far? After being around for so long, I can assure you: nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to the evil that men do."

"Ah, Joachim. You know, we humans are driven by this hunger, this yearning for the innocence we lost. Call it Eden if you want; something we don't recall with our memory, but with our cells. And we want to go back so badly. We'd even kill for it, which admittedly isn't the best of methods…"

"Eden! It was we who created it. We grew a garden out of the desert, at the time you apes were still crawling in the dust."

"Please, Joachim. It wasn't yours. You were just the serpent coiled around a tree, hissing so sweetly: You want to know? Come here, my child, I'll teach you. I know it all. Look at me, see how beautiful I am..." she laughs. "And curious creatures that we apes are, we bit into the proverbial apple. And it was poisoned."

"It made you very… unruly, yes. We were too permissive, that was our big mistake. Give a jackal your hand…"

"Oh yes. I remember that. Quite clearly, actually."

When he meets her eyes, she sees the astute, the cunning light behind the dull blackness. So unlike Kurtis' trusting eyes. How little, how unimportant she must look in those old, old pupils. Nothing, a black dot, a fleck of dust.

"As a race, you actually deserve to be wiped out." He speaks gaily, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

"No doubt, but what a pitiful kingdom you'd have, then. What could you rule, your brothers? They're all gone, I buried the last one with my own hands. Your offspring? We have a little dynastic problem here, don't we? Because they turned human, turned against you. What would be left to rule?"

"You."

"Good grief, not that again. Two were fighting over me and I chose. How come you can't accept a simple No?"

"I'm lonely," he states, simply enough.

"Right, I know the feeling. Live with it, 'cause I won't help you out there. I opened the pit once, and guess what came out? Plague, and pestilence, and a bunch of grasshoppers."

"Locusts."

"Yes, thank you, those. And that wasn't all I did, was it? I took what I craved and in doing so, unleashed Apocalypse. Didn't even have to blow the old trumpet. And then, naturally, I got worried, so I summoned the light to me to save my hide, and that left your rebelling offspring unprotected. Smart thing that you are, you grabbed your chance. Not blaming you there, Joachim, I'd have done the same in your place. The problem is, the price I paid was too high. I woke up in darkness, and since then all I've been doing is pining for what I've lost. It's pathetic. But I will get it right this time, and then I'll walk out and move on. I'll live again."

"A rather foolish hope, Lara. The dead don't revive; they just get caught in a loop. The only true expiation for past sins is blood. A fact that everyone knew before the carpenter of Nazareth started spreading around all that rubbish about turning the other cheek and forgiving the prodigal son."

"Hmm, well. I'm not a fan of the meek inheriting the world myself, but you never know. This friend of mine, a priest…"

"The worst sort."

She shrugs. "Perhaps. This one is quite interesting to talk to, you know? Last time, we meant to discuss you, but then, somehow, we ended up talking films. He had the director spot on, but we were distracted by irrelevant details."

"Why are you telling me this, Lara?"

"I thought you'd be interested in a kind of bedtime story. Would you?"

He smiles, condescendingly, the way one smiles to small children and fools. "Please do."

"The children of god saw the daughters of men, that they were fair…"

"Oh, the romantic one? Not very original," he says pleasantly, but his smile is growing increasingly cold.

"Good; I think it's a simplistic version myself. How about this one? The most beautiful of all sons rebelled against his father and consequently, was cast out. Out and down, and in the fall, he lost his eye, a precious stone…"

"Less conventional, but still not good enough. You must try a little harder, Scheherazade, because, you know, if you can't keep the sultan interested…" he draws a hand across his neck, an unmistakeable gesture.

"Oh well, can't say I didn't try. I'll start where all stories begin then, with 'Once upon a time'… And please, would you mind dropping his face? It's not like I expect to ever see him alive again."

"Ye of little faith," he mocks, slowly, very slowly obeying. "I expect your story hasn't got a happy end."

"Tsk, Joachim. There's no such thing as a happy end."

* * *

Once upon a time a race of apes inhabited an inhospitable planet. Nature was harsh to them, life a flash in the pan, too short to permit cognition to form. But they were quick, and had opposable thumbs, and one day one ape picked up a stick, or a rock, and smashed another ape's skull and Hooray, the tool was invented. To free their hands they learned to walk upright, proudly, and they looked up and saw a star fall. It was beautiful and terrifying, a theatre of dancing flames as a black stone hit the ground and shattered to pieces, and stirred the waters to swallow half of the world. 

Once upon a time a race of apes wanted to own a planet, but they weren't alone. The apes weren't too good at sharing, but this inhospitable planet of theirs, it homed so many other creatures - the mammoth, the sabre-tooth tiger - so many different beings crawling out of the sea, or falling from the sky. The fallen ones, they were very pale -so pale! -that they shone, they had horned skulls, faces like vipers; they could fly, or fall, or morph into animals, into apes. They were ancient, and they had forgotten where they had come from, or if they remembered they would not tell - not how, or why - certainly not _the apes_.

Age had given them awareness; it had made them wise or sly. They had survival skills, but they had been dealt a poor hand, a vacation in hell. A sun too hot for such white skin, air too thin for flying, they were truly creatures of shadow and silence in an emerging world bursting with sound, and colour and rich smells.

The apes looked and saw they were fair, and beautiful. They called them the giants of old, men of renown. They called them djinn, spirits, angels or demons, depending on their current mood. They called them gods. Then, they proceeded to kill them, one by one. Later, they would refine their methods, but the first one, he was probably clubbed to death.

Once upon a time a memory of something shiny walked among the apes. The fallen ones weren't all that good at sharing either, but they were alone, and hungry, and they were a long way from home. Necessity demanded of them, and what they shared was all they knew, and all they had brought to their exile. What they shared was their genes.

They dwindled slowly, but slowly only to the eyes of apes; for them, despair and extinction arrived as sudden as a cataclysm, and just as inevitable. Their fragile metabolism caused them to reproduce with aching slowness; they were no match for the exponentially growing hordes of apes. Since their children would, though, inherit part of their curse -strength, longevity, knowledge- many of them became kings, because among the blind, the one-eyed always rule. Some, like the great Macedonian, or Moses, even had the horns. Others had the hooves, or the rudiments of a tail -their fathers lacking a shape, they reflected instead life as it was around them- but more often than not, the apes promptly killed those abnormal monsters, for an ape doesn't like to be reminded that he also bore a tail once, and lost it.

Memory is not long, and distance distorts it. By the time evolution had finally made the apes into men, all the gods had ceased to exist, or existed only in the realm of myths and nightmares. All that remained was the blood. And men would spend the oncoming centuries seeking the very same thing they had destroyed. The _Sangue Real_, San Graal, the grail of blood, the angelic stone on and from which a civilization had arisen and sunk again. But what they sought could not be found, for it was a secret hidden inside man itself. And the ones that knew where to dig were keener to forget and be done with. For they knew, they knew, and for knowing they had been marked on their foreheads. Having tasted the fruit of knowledge, how to forget its sweetness? How to go back to the blissful unawareness of an ape? Left behind with a key of blood for opening Paradise, but Paradise was only a bottomless pit.

Somewhere in the depths of space, a bearded old man slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. Or a computer went on beeping, flashing its unanswered message into eternity.

* * *

"Very nice," a nameless creature smiles, displaying for Lara a perfect row of sharp incisors, "but you forget one tiny detail. Many things we taught you, but to kill you learned all on your own." 

Lara chews her lip, thoughtful. "That's true. In darkness we wander, looking for ways to atone. But you, that once shone, you are the darkness. You believe that you are the Only One Who Is, that you can do no wrong. You're alone because no others can exist next to you but as a reflection of your own emptiness."

The creature throws its head back, laughs soundlessly. "At last. Welcome home, Lara."

"Welcome yourself, Yaldabaoth. To honour the ones that burned to keep you hidden, this is what I'll call you from now on. Yaldabaoth, the Demiurge, beckoner of lost children, Saklas, the fool, Samael the lion-faced serpent offering a forbidden fruit. And, my dear, we might be the true monsters, but we were here _first_. You want to go back to heaven, you go alone."

* * *

**A/N: The chapter's title is not my creation, but Jordy's. Thank you, Jords, my dark doppelgänger. And, psst: that was a _hard_ coconut...**


	25. Four horsemen, hooves of one horse

**A/N: Four more chapters to go and I'll be done with fooling around! What a relief, eh?**

* * *

**FOUR HORSEMEN, HOOVES OF ONE HORSE**

"Yaldabaoth?" he says slowly, letting the name roll in his mouth. "Yes, they called me that, sometimes, the Cathars, and look how they ended up. Wiped out - and not by me. At some stage I really thought I might help you all rise above your limitations, but it turned out men preferred to stay apes."

"Emotions, we call that. Love, hate, despair, fury. We are imperfect, but that's the redeeming part. Perfection is the true horror."

"I see. And I hoped that you would be the perfect queen…" clucking his tongue, he turns away from her. Lara's hypnotized by the spiel of his muscles, the angles of bones straining against fabric, stretching, breaking out. The strands of greenish fire rising from his skull, the curlicues bulging under the glowing skin like parasitic organisms worming their paths towards revelation. He turns his face to the side, an inch, his mouth opens. "We're at an impasse here. What shall we do, in your opinion?"

"Negotiate, maybe? Like, say, I walk out while time closes and this temple crashes down again," she points up at the massive sky above, "and go for a nice Turkish bath. You stay here and count the stars. Your time might come eventually, but not tonight. Not by my hand."

"That," he growls, turning, "is out of the question."

Lara sighs, carefully stepping back. "I gathered as much." She brings the gun up and empties the magazine on his empty face.

* * *

Seconds after the first bolt hits the spot she was standing on, Lara starts suspecting she might've made a serious miscalculation. There's no pity and no fear in this creature's eyes, just total blankness, a void more sickening than gazing into a deep chasm. And it's a matter of seconds before he scores, no matter how agile she is. 

"So you want me to kill you?"

Lara decides she might as well take her chances. "Am I not dead already?"

"What you intend, then, is to kill me?"

"You already pointed out that I can't," she shouts back, annoyed. This always gets so repetitive.

He stops throwing bolts as suddenly as he started and looks at her. She understands he's fighting his own drive there, the pure instinct to crush her like some annoying bug, although no feelings alter his face, the black holes staring at nothing. Lara cautiously ventures, while trying to tiptoe closer to the door, "It's nothing personal. You showed me what you are, I'm showing you what I do. I destroy monsters. In my book, the Nephilim fall into the monster category. Ergo, I destroy them."

Abruptly, he spreads his arms wide, jerks his head back and howls, not at her but at the darkness around him, and there is true wonder in his voice, a total lack of understanding that is all the more tragic in its finality: "How am _I _a monster?!"

It catches Lara by surprise. She gapes, then collects herself quickly, shaking her head. "Because you can't repent? Because you're utterly unable to admit what you did wrong, and still demand redemption? Why are you asking me, for Heaven's sake? _You _said that redemption doesn't come without atonement first."

"Atonement to who?! There is nothing out there! Nothing! Nothing!" his voice rises to a whirlwind, almost knocking her off her feet. "There's just me!"

"Again, you've forgotten me. So typical of you…" someone snickers at their backs.

Lara spins around, caught between two fronts now. The creature turns too, assessing, with a single glance, the new constellation.

He doesn't even look that surprised as he takes in the illusionist's shape. Nor the illusionist's companion. "I knew you would fail me this time, Asmodai."

"Lord Aeshma for you, Elohim, just as they sang it by the rivers of Babylon," Luther spits back, but his eye is fixed steadily on Lara's face, his mouth stretched to a wide grin. "Good evening, Miss Croft. Are we too late to see the fat lady sing?"

* * *

A man. Not a man. Not a demon either, not completely. Too much soft tissue. When he thinks of himself, he always thinks of himself as a _man_. 

Oh, the power of a name. Asmodai, he's been called, but it makes little difference to him; by that name he was conquered in Solomon's day. And lesser demons can be brought down with the blow of a single word, and he has since learned that true power is letting others do the dirty work. Learned from the Watchers themselves, who were safe and sound as long as they watched, but fell once they decided on action. And he's had time to learn, stuck as he was in a dark library, only mouldy manuscripts for company and only a tired eye for reading them; bottling up his hatred for the right time to let the genie out, awake the Sleeper, not the dead being in his coffin of Anatolian stone, but the living, the running one dreaming within the confines of a human body. Watch, wait. Millennia had to pass for the blood to reappear (and with such force, such vehemence!), bent on extinction as the enlightened knights were –maggots, all of them. The same lineage, the two sides of a coin, one with too much human blood, one with too little, both impure.

Observing the two perfect creatures in front of him, he feels heavy with awareness. Resentful of his own demonic nature.

Two for the price of one, it shall be.

The man is shaking with laughter now, shaking so hard that a single tear spills out of his eye, catching on the long ridges of his scarred cheek.

How did you think I could ever, ever forgive you? Your shadow so thick that it makes me look black.

Am I my brother's keeper?

Definitely not.

I'm just the one that poked him awake.

And when you're all done here, I'll retreat into darkness and smile. Or maybe go and read a little.

* * *

Back in the days she was young and bold and hardly impressed by the arrogance of demons, she had still believed that a name, a little water sufficed. Those days are long gone (and how could she ever be so fearless? Was she too proud to fear creatures that could turn the hair of a priest the purest white? Had she continued reading the names in the Bestiarium, wouldn't her own name have appeared?) 

These are the thoughts that flash in her brain while she prepares, steels herself with a growl. Or maybe she hasn't growled, maybe her mirror has. Or Kurtis, who's turned into a mirror of a mirror. It certainly isn't Rouzic, who's only standing, smiling, a shadow in the shadows, and leading an army of shadows.

"Ah," the fallen angel speaks, his voice a dark rumble coming from a haze of light. "Which of the line are you, keeper?"

The Sleeper hesitates, its tongue unused for aeons has trouble finding the correct words. "Trencavel," he mutters at last, and his horrible face crumbles.

"Really! How interesting…" They are not speaking any language she knows, Lara suddenly realizes. This is not Latin, or Aramaic, or even Urdu, but a sum of tongues, the pure language of the days when men had not yet craved a tower to gain Heaven. "I thought your father had drowned in a dungeon. In his own _shit_." And the deliberate choice of words is, without a doubt, meant to underline the brutality of the remark.

"My great grandfather."

"Whatever. Not a pleasant death. But we won't call him dead, since he only went to fight his war in the shadows..." -the dismissing sway of his hand encompasses all of the silent audience, the bowed heads of the ghostly army forming around them. "Which of them was he, the one at Carcassonne? Bernhard?"

"Raymond Roger," the illusionist throws in, pouting a little at being, once more, omitted. "A fine _chevalier_. I was there at the time, Elohim, did you know? Although I didn't call myself Luther back then, but Simon de Montfort. Pretty name, I liked that one."

"Were you, Luther…" Yaldabaoth turns his striking face to him, amused. "You let him escape?"

"What do you think?!" the black man shrieks, losing it. "I let you escape once, and look how _you_ repaid that favour!" He pulls at the taut skin of his damaged face, hatred spilling in waves out of his flashing eye, the remaining one, not the empty tangle of scar tissue and dead skin that has closed the other forever.

"Only yourself to blame," the other one returns, indifferent. "If my memory doesn't betray me –and my memory never does- it was you that buried me first. And atop of me, you put their temple…"

"And planted a lily, and it flourished, blah blah blah. Blah! And know something, Shining One? The sons of the lily, they let me be. Unlike you!" Luther's screams rise, ricocheting off the stone walls. Lara steals a look at Kurtis, standing with eyes shut, rocking softly to the sound of his own inner music. Almost as if he could feel the weight of her stare, his eyes fly open, and instead of pupils, what she sees in them are seas of blood.

"Unlike you…" Luther's enraged voice breaks into a hoarse whimper. "Father."

"Well," the angel laughs, shifting his attention back to Kurtis. "How to love something as ugly as you…! You, lost child, come here. Come closer to me, son." He crooks his fingers at him, invitingly.

"No!" Lara screams, throwing herself in between them, and the last thing she hears before Kurtis slams into her is the roar of an imperfect angel, stating with a perfect American twang: "I'm not _your_ son."

* * *

The impact sends her rolling a few feet, knocks the last air out of her lungs. When she reopens her eyes, she's lying underwater, staring through a distorting veil at a huge, starved being, rising over her like a monstrous avenger. 

Her hand is empty. The eye has rolled away to the deeper part of the stream. She scrambles up, stumbling, cowering behind her arms. "Kurtis…" she pleads, but this isn't Kurtis, not anymore. Whatever he was, it is gone forever, or buried too deeply under the monster's unflinching stare.

"Don't go at _her_! Not now, you- you- you stupid _thing_!" the illusionist shrieks, bouncing up and down the shore like an over-excited child. "Him! Himhimhimhiiiimm!!!"

The Sleeper freezes, trembling. From the cavern of his open gullet, a slow dribble of saliva trickles down. Its head lolls right and left, searching for the Puppeteer's voice, dumb, empty. And then it throws its head back and howls, very much like Karel howled minutes ago, effectively drowning Luther's cry of frustration and his creator's response.

_And there go my eardrums…_

Lara dives through the pillars of his legs, her hand feeling blindly in the water for Horus' eye, and meanwhile the Sleeper stomps blindly and pained, making the ground quake, stirring the murky waters.

A hand digs into her neck, she can feel the razor sharp nails cutting through skin. She's hauled out of the stream like a limp bag of rags, a soaked kitten. Holding her high over the ground, Yaldabaoth shakes her like a puppet, snarls at his offspring, luring him closer, offering this bait.

Bait or not, it's a good thing she's a contortionist, or she wouldn't be able to twist around and sink her teeth into that hand. And no regrets either, although tonight her fall isn't softened by a canopy.

It's like Jacob wrestling the angel. An unbalanced fight, and like Lara already knew, it won't last long.

And all the time, Rouzic runs in circles, uttering short cries and gasps of distress or pleasure. The Nephili is enormous, strong, but defective - built with some kind of aberrant geometry, absurd angles that defy all laws of Nature, this monstrous hybrid of two species that were never meant to breed - and as such is no match for its elder. A carnage, over as quickly as it started.

Rouzic freezes, his arms still risen, and dumbly stares at the outcome of his machinations. A moment passes, then he sinks his arms slowly and risks a shifty look at his former companion.

"Weeell…" he mumbles, pulling at his collar. "Perhaps I was mistaken, after all…"

But for now, Karel is ignoring him. His black eyes are set on Lara. With the speed of a cobra, his hand shoots down, and digs deep into the defeated Sleeper's hair, pulling his head roughly back for her to admire.

"This?" he spits out, incredulity mixed with scorn. "_This_ is what you choose? You think I'm a monster, what would you call _this_?"

Her heart turns in her chest, in revulsion and pity. The veil of blood can't fully conceal the mortal paleness, the scars and burns of the outcast, the sad uncomprehending eyes. "This!" Karel repeats, but he's speaking only to himself this time. He shakes with disgust, and pushes the other's limp body away. "Call me the half breed!" After wiping his hand, he bends down to extricate the Chirugai from Kurtis' clenched fist. "Let go, Trencavel, for this belongs to me…"

"Don't kill him. Please don't kill him," she croaks.

"No?" he mocks. "But I thought you were so keen on destroying the Nephilim!" He places his foot on Kurtis' back and rolls him closer to the pit.

"But he's one of your kind. Don't kill him…"

"Rebellious children, all of them. Sons rising against the fathers, in a very human way. Disgusting!"

She covers her face. She's seen enough, and any more would make her heart explode. Nothing can be gained out of this...no supreme revelation, no enlightenment, nothing. The dice have been cast, four horses unleashed, but no god of light will come to her rescue; she was a fool to believe it would.

_What, giving up?_ Werner's voice falls on her like a whip.

_Haven't you punished me enough? Why don't you just crawl back under your stone and shut up?!_ she shouts back at him, covering her ears. And still, she cannot stop him laughing, his spiteful, cruel laugh. _Make me. Make me shut up_.

With a scream she charges blindly forward, knocking the Chirugai out of the angel's hand. Startled, what was once (and never was) Karel freezes, undecided whether to go after her, after the Chirugai or after Luther himself, who couldn't have chosen a better moment to attempt flight, flattened against the wall as he tries to merge into the multitude of dead Templars. And she's damned if she'll stop to ponder Luther's fate as The Old One chooses him; she rolls, jumps up and sprints towards the discarded winged disk, barely catching it before it plummets into the pit. As her hand closes over the glaive, something brushes her fingertips, and when she jolts her head up, the Sleeper's face is inches away from hers. For an endless moment she's witness to its inner struggle, and can't help but wonder if every time Kurtis went inside himself, he saw the world not black, like she does, but through a thin red veil. And what it must be like, to look at it through a Nephilim's eye and why he always went such lengths to avoid using the powers that came with his heritage. She flinches, his touch feels so awfully cold, but then he whispers to her, in an agonic, strained human voice:

"It's so hungry..."

Behind them, Luther screeches, trying to shake off Karel's hands. "You are stupid, stupid, you weak... old... toothless... _bugaboo_! She will never be your queen, don't you get it? You were too slow! She's already with child! His, not yours! His!"

"What?! Wait a m- " she stutters out, shocked. The Sleeper's face twists in pain. Lara yanks the Chirugai out of his hands. "You and I, _Trencavel_, we've got a lot to discuss later…" she hisses. He reaches blindly out, but Lara isn't ready yet to let go. "Hungry it may be, but it's also blind."

Livid, incensed and utterly pissed off, she slams the eye into the blade's empty socket.

* * *

A streak of flashing brightness and the world rotates on its axis, several times. Lara is rocketed through the air, petals of pain unfolding before her eyes. Luther's screech is cut off at the highest note. Light floods every recess of the chamber, frosting the turned-away dead faces, biting their knuckles in the eternal sign of horror, and dims slowly to ominous peace. Time has stopped. The Sleeper rises, and now it has golden claws, but he looks confused, shaken, stunned. Every hair on her body stands up, and even more slowly she rises, paling, knowing. 

"_Don't look now_…" Werner warns her from the distance. It's not like she wants to, but the pull is too strong.

The air is fetid with decay, the silence full of whispers, echoes of screams and clattering swords. Somewhere in another dimension of time, Acre is about to fall, but none of these broken chess pieces will run. In an eerie moment of eternity, three of the four horses stand still, poised in a perfect leap. A heartbeat, a triptych of darkness. White, black, crimson.

And behind her an angel, shifting into his final shape.


	26. Crimson

**A/N: The evil beta has just pointed out to me that's been a whole year (!!) since I first sent her the draft of the last chapters. Where the heck did the time go?!**

**So, it seems that it's about time that I finished what I started. The oncoming chappies will be posted as speedily as the beta's time schedule allows.**

**And these are, presumably, my last author notes. Writing a long story was a challenge, but one that was totally gratifying. I had a great time, and learned a lot, and most of all, I got to meet a bunch of spectacularly cool people along the way. Thank you for being, every one of you.**

* * *

**26. CRIMSON**

You look into a mirror and you see yourself. You believe it to be yourself, for the reversed image has your eyes, your mouth, your face. But the inverted you lacks the depth. The mirror has no choice but to reflect, and why wouldn't it; mirrors don't want to be empty.

Even before she turns to her copycat, she knows what she's going to see. She knows why she'll see it. Of all the possible yearnings, the mirror will always choose the strongest. Kurtis would want to see his father, Luther a blue-eyed child. But she can't help longing for herself, the one she was before she fell, out of innocence and out of grace, plunged headlong into the consuming fire of rage. And doesn't the mirror know what it feels like, a fall so steep.

To fall, and shatter into a million shiny pieces. And how do you put them back together when you've long forgotten the pattern, what you really were to start with?

* * *

"Madam..." Luther, always flawlessly groomed, bows his head to his audience, "and gentlemen..."

Mathias Vasiley steals a glance at Konstantin, sitting ramrod straight at his side, spearing Rouzic with burning eyes. "Take a seat, brother Luther," he says, motioning him to the high backed chair.

In all the years - centuries - he has known the black man, the main emotion the illusionist provokes in him is an indefinable mix of weariness, pity and horror. That feeling will belong to the past soon, as everything else shall too.

For Mathias Vasiley knows that this is the last time they'll come together. Only four of them left: _Il Bogomille_ dead for over six years (a gruesome accident - _un accidente spaventoso_ the Italian tabloids, never renowned for their delicacy, dubbed it; but their kind, they don't suffer 'accidents'). Fitzsimmons, the last of the St. Clair line, won't be attending this gathering either. Three days ago, a beheaded corpse was fished out of a bog near Craigesk; the puzzled forensics were quite excited to discover that the poor devil's remains dated back to the seventeenth century and dutifully attributed this freakish wonder to the preserving conditions of the Scottish moors. Nobody made the connection between the headless cadaver and William Fitzsimmons, gone missing a few weeks ago.

"This is a dangerous game you are asking me to play, and having one eye is better than none," the black man is saying. "I want my reward. And I want it now."

"He is my son!" Konstantin roars, his fist slamming on the table so hard that the candles flicker and send their shadows jumping wildly on the walls.

"And _he_," the illusionist spits viciously back, "was my father." His bony finger points at the leader of the Lux Veritatis. "I told you, Sire, decades ago, that it would come to this. All you did was buy some time. But us, we always had more time than you. Your blessing, our curse."

Konstantin sinks his head into his hands. "No. No! I'm not calling him back."

"Why not? After all, he exists just for this. We created, _I _created him for this. I found the carrier, the fresh blood, the pretty windtalker's daughter. You agreed. You _agreed_, Trencavel, and you can't back out now..."

"Asmodai..." Vasiley murmurs. If he would, for once, just stop talking, he thinks sadly. And yet, he knows that for all his malice, the black man is just another tortured spirit, another insignificant witness of history. Little demon bound by a ring, rejected by his creator, a lost restless soul. "He is right, Konstantin. That was the plan, from the minute that bomb hit the castle."

"We couldn't foresee that one of us could become so...corrupted." De Combel shakes his head. "Every chain has a weak link, and Aicard was ours, God have mercy on his black soul."

Approving murmurs hush around the table.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about Pieter," the illusionist throws in, waving a dismissive hand. "He's still bent on transmutation and the whole humbug, the mad old dog. Hasn't kept up with the times. But my Jach-"

"Pieter can't enter holy ground. The paintings are safe," De Combel insists.

Vasiley sighs again. "I'm sorry to be the one telling you this, but they are not." Avoiding his brothers' glances, he slides a creased newspaper to the man on his right. De Combel stares in disbelief at the gory title. "My Lord in Heaven. Even with Guilhelm dead, how on earth did he manage to enter Rosslyn Chapel?!"

"He didn't." The woman speaks up for the first time. "Someone else did it for him. And I got that someone to do it for him."

"You- WHAT?!" Konstantin turns red as if on the brink of an apoplexy. "Marg-"

"I'm sorry, my dear," the woman addresses him softly. "But we've waited so long for our release. I feel for you, and if it comforts you, I'm selling my soul too. This someone..." she hesitates, a girlish blush spreading over her wilted face, making her look, for a moment, almost young again- "is someone I care deeply about."

"Oh, the power of love," the illusionist chants, a grin contorting his wretched face. "No matter how long we stay around, we always end up tripping over the same old stone..."

"Be quiet, Asmodai," Vasiley scolds him, watching the woman's pained face.

"But why _now_?" a haunted Konstantin argues, "We have a pact. We won't touch him unless he tries to... reclaim his rule. Let me deal with the alchemist. Leave my boy alone."

"If Mr. De Combel had let me finish..." the man rolls his eye, drumming his fingers on the table. "Who cares about Pieter? He is a pawn. So are you, so am I. But my Jachin... well, my darling lambs, should I say he has, all of a sudden, found his heart again? Discovered the joy of living, perhaps? Oh, whatever. He thinks he is in love, the randy old thing, and as such he is a force to be reckoned with, the Alpha that only Omega will bring down. You can't possibly expect me to raise a hand against my distinguished progenitor, can you?" he leans forwards, his voice a hiss. "That's just the way it is, Sire. One full Nephilim for another."

Konstantin's head shoots up, his blue eyes blazing. "He is more human than I, than all of us. NO!"

"More human than I for sure," the demon returns with a snigger. "But that, _messieurs_, as we well know, is just a make believe. Once he gets a taste of the old blood..."

Konstantin lunges at him, and it's only with great effort that the others manage to restrain him and force him back into his chair. "No..." he breaks down at last, his voice coarse like sandpaper.

"Frater," Vasiley leans over the table, grips his old friend's arm with his crippled claw. "Where is your faith gone? Call him back, Konstantin, he'll still have the choice of whether he responds."

Konstantin shakes his head, unable to say anything more. Rising, Mathias pulls him up to his feet and embraces him with fierceness, whispers only for his ear: "Don't you trust me, my brother? Ask our sister, she knows. We have it all set, and I'm telling you, he won't be alone."

"May God forgive me..." Konstantin sobs into his shoulder.

"He may, with luck," Luther folds his hands and leans back into his chair, his eye gleaming with malevolent satisfaction. "Because your son, he certainly won't."

* * *

"It was an agreement between gentlemen, and for a while it actually worked. But then, what choice do the ones like us have but to wait it out? Can you imagine what a life that is? A life in the fringes of the real world, always forced to blend in, pass unnoticed, living like monks for fear of creating more of that which creates us - having to watch all that men destroy and still clinging to humanity like ticks to their favourite dog?"

"And then?" she asks without turning.

"And then? Oh well. Say someone goes a little mad, figures he can distil the holy grail from out of his own soul. Say a toy plane drops a bomb on the wrong target. Say a child is born not out of love but to fulfil a prophecy. Say somebody - a woman - comes by, opens a tomb, and all of a sudden every god wants to come out and play. Chain of circumstances, little accidents, Miss Croft. If a little boy flips a stone into the ocean in Long Island, and half an hour later a tsunami swallows up half of the Philippines, how would we know? Make the connection?"

Slumped against the wall, his face an open wound, the black man still manages a little secret smile, a nod of acknowledgement to himself. "It takes very little, a moment of distraction, to call back a god. We are absence, to exist we need to soak up the darkness in others. What, do you think, makes the eyes of dead beings flicker in their dusty tombs, makes them shake with longing, rise from the ashes and walk?"

Her twin lifts a hand, cups her own face so slowly, so tenderly; Lara's hardly aware that she's repeating the gesture until she sees her own hand resting on her reflection's face.

"I know you," together they whisper in recognition. "I remember you. I've seen you before."

"Of course you have. Many times. You smite one being, another one fills its place, and whether they are dark or a living flame it makes no difference - they all want something in return. Whose name did you call on when breaking the last seal, loosening the knot? Let me refresh your memory, say for you the prayer you never uttered on crossing Horus' gate: _I have made my way, I know you, and I know thy name, and I know the name of her who is within thee: She who slayeth always, __the awful one who terrifieth, who herself remaineth unterrified within."_

Such a beautiful face I once had, Lara thinks, her twin's cheek so smooth under her palm. Such fearless eyes. I feared not, nor anything in this world but me. And my heart fed on the terror of others, grew heavy with awareness, perfect, all knowing. I became immortal, a goddess in the ranks of the gods. _Unterrified within_, indeed.

Unlike her own face, the frozen Sleeper's features are stricken with atavistic terror. Blood as thick and black as tar is trickling down its torn arms, the winged disk humming in anticipation, a dark rumble too low for human ears but one even a human heart senses and recognizes. So it slows its beat until it falls in step with that stronger pounding, the first pulse of animated matter. The Chirugai, straining against the binding claw, unfolding like a flower, with one eye as golden and cold as the eye of a bird gaining altitude.

_I flew up from primeval matter. I came into being as consciousness, I bloomed like a lily, I hid like a turtle in its shell._

_I am the seed of every god, the firstborn of the first one, Avenger of my father, and the Phoenix rising from its own ashes. _

Panic in the Sleeper's eyes, sweet revenge in the illusionist's face. Whose throat will it cut if given a choice? And then she knows the answer, as clearly as a message from God flashing on a palace's wall.

_A second time thou calleth and I have come. I am arisen, and glorious, strong and divine among the gods_

"Fifty-fifty…you may as well let go," she swallows. She's looking at herself, uttering the same words, but her words are for someone else, someone she doesn't even know is still listening - if he exists at all.

"Yess, did you hear her? Let it fly and destroy!" Luther shrieks, suddenly frenzied. "Two for the price of one!"

The Sleeper turns to him, searching for his voice, and from his throat a whimper is torn, the pained gurgle of a suffering animal.

"You'll be free, I promise you," Luther urges him, choking, opening his arms to encompass the surrounding shadows. "You'll free them all, all you must do is let go!"

_I am Horus, k__nife which cutteth when its name is uttered, slayer of those who approach my flame. And thou shalt know:_

A long shiver runs through the Sleeper's strained body. "No..."

"Why not, Kurtis, really." She smiles to herself, shaking her head. "I wasn't meant to survive in the first place. It's taken him a while, but he's caught up at last."

_I kept watch over thee._

"I can't," the Sleeper gasps, pulling the spinning disk back with both hands. "I just can't, baby," it says, and in a single sweep of mighty arms, drives the blade deep into himself, feeds the flames with his own darkness.

_Baby?_

Black fluid jets out of the wound in a wide fountain, and his eyes are blue and big with hope before he sways and pitches forward, slowly, slowly, sinks down to his knees.

The world quivers.

Her twin starts to laugh, laughs in silence but so intently - a knowing look, the gleam of fangs in an open mouth. Lara staggers back, in shock, and it staggers back too. Surprised, she backs another step, watches him repeat the move, their fingers barely touching now; and she starts laughing too, harder and harder until the tears blur it all.

_Kurtis, you really ARE an idiot._

The great thing about mirrors is that they can reflect all they want, but they never know what you're plotting, Lara reflects grimly as she calculates the distance and takes a last step back and to the side. "Yes, he's a scream, I know." Taken by surprise, her twin doesn't have the same luck. The astonishment in his eyes as his feet meet nothing would make her day, if the events before had not already broken her heart.

So stupidly simple. Easier than crushing a worm.

"Why aren't you laughing now?" she scorns, looking over the brim of the pit at the frozen white face below, gaping up at her, past tautology and games. "Don't you think it's funny that I'd let everyone down, including myself?"

It howls one last time, lashing out in ineffectual fury, and with that last scream it starts changing, becomes everyone and no-one: an accelerating succession of faces, familiar at first, increasingly strange, barely human. And then not human at all, a goat, a lizard, fantastic creatures fresh from the nightmares of a Gothic painter - manticore, basilisk, every aberrance under the sun, Seraph with four faces and six wings and a flaming chariot for a body. And then nothing, a vague luminescence filling a coffin that a slab of painted heaven slams shut.

_So this is what eternity is like_, Lara thinks, hearing the Phoenix break through the ceiling above her as time trembles and Acre tumbles down. But eternity in an eye blink, lasting a second and forever. Or at least until somebody, a woman, comes by again and decides she wants it all.

No human chronicle ever recorded whether Lucifer screamed when he fell. He, he falls in silence, as all shooting stars fall.

* * *

"And now for you..." She turns. Every face is set on her, the ranks of ghosts closing protectively round a slouched figure, swords suspended in mid air. The eternal outcast, Luther is left alone, his blind face whipping left and right, trying to locate the source of the danger.

"What?" he yaps, sensing her closeness, squirming away, "What have I ever done to you?"

"You called me fat," she returns flatly, looking down at him. "And you ruined an altogether fine night out in my favourite city."

It's a short lived pang, the satisfaction. _In hoc signo vinces_, the brief moment of victory with all the colourful banners flapping in the wind, until you realize that nobody's cheering. And when you look around that's all there is left: the last woman standing after passing the test with flying colours, and the multitude of the dead.

"You're not leaving us behind, are you?" Fear has turned a demon into a babbling, pitiful beggar, groping in the darkness, stumbling blind; his foot touches water, and he jumps back with a squeal.

Lara sighs, recalling Tosca's exclamation of wonder on realizing the most terrible things shrink to nothing once you look at them properly. "And before him, all of Rome trembled...!" she sneers, and turns away.

"Madame! I can build you a palace, a vision of sparkling crystal in the desert, a garden with the sweetest smelling roses, a million fountains with the freshest water, the biggest chandelier your heart desires!"

"Thank you, but I already have a palace," she answers without turning, pushing her way through the ghosts till she comes to stand before Kurtis. "And let me tell you, it's not such a great thing. A drain on one's finances, and Paradise for the rats. Damp, cold, and awfully expensive to heat."

"But you can't! You would no-" The black man's rising scream stops all of a sudden. His face changes. Becomes knowing, cunning, avid, hungry for more. "But you would. Once again, you would."

The firmament quakes and crackles, and the moon is ripped in two, and Orion crashes to the ground, _and_ all the Pleiades; then Canis Major and Canis Minor, the whole bloody universe coming down.

"You would," he snickers slowly. "You _will_."

"Ask me next time, got to rush now," she mutters absently, caught in the sight of him. _In hoc signo vinces_. Kneeling in his own blood, head sunk to his chest and dark hair spilling over his face, he is the picture of a praying knight.

"You will, Lara Croft, the ones like you don't learn. You will run now, before it all comes apart." A shadow of his former self, but the black man still laughs. "And every time you look at yourself, I'll be there. In every decision you make, I'll be guiding your hand. Every time you open your eyes, I'll be looking through them!"

Lara straightens, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Oh well, if you insist..." she shrugs. "I'll think of something."


	27. The meagre souls

**THE MEAGRE SOULS**

This is eternity, and _by this sign you shall conquer..._

The Beauceant's ambiguity, the lamb and the lion, black and white, checkered like a chessboard; and in the corners of the field the warhorses raise their heads and sniff the air, impatient hooves clubbing the ground. Ager Sanguinis, Hattin, Arsuf. _Jerusalem!_ Beware, this is the Beauceant that hangs limp and dusty in the merciless heat over the compact wall of mounted men, bearded, unwashed and not afraid of death; for _Kill them all, God will know His own - _pick with unfailing fingers the white from the black.

Montgisard, La Forbie, Bannockburn. They'll die and administer death for that signature of blood on their white capes, the squat red cross. The same cross that will preside over their destruction, in a now still-distant future: _Black Friday_ the thirteenth 1309. The last Grandmaster will burn at the stake of Phillip _le bel _(who shall join him in the celestial bonfire, oh poetic justice, within the year, as will the cursed Pope), all the secrets fade into Obscurity. The knights will disperse, become legend. But the bloodline will remain, stretching like a red serpent through the veins of history.

Beauceant! 1492, and hidden in the deep forests of faraway shores, dark skinned people will see the white sails with the red cross approaching, and, thinking it's the Gods coming back, welcome them with showers of gold or arrows. 1789, and by the end of the French Revolution an anonymous Jacobine will shout, as Louis XVI's blood soaks the wood span beneath his royal severed head: _"Jacques de Molay, tu as été vengé !" _

"Now's the bit where we run for it…" Her hand closes on his shoulder, feels the familiar slope of a muscle, sticky with blood. "On your feet now."

Kurtis lifts a vacant face, sunken eyes focused not on her but on something beyond her presence, welcoming shadows that she can feel but not see, and then says, so low she barely hears him, _Je ne m'enfuit pas. __Je suis mort._ And by his desolate sneer, she understands he's quoting somebody, resigning himself to the fulfilment of the dark fate he denied all along. And he raises an arm in a slow apology, displaying the open gash on his side, the bloody mouth from where his body will spit out his soul, and sinks his head again.

Who could blame her for her panic? Certainly not him, too far gone to register her curses and far too heavy for her to carry.

If this place is going to be sucked down the drain of history, she has to find a way out before she's caught up in the maelstrom again. Desperate, she looks down at him. Her poor grieving knight. Almost funny, and she sobs once, a dry, excruciating release of breath, for she knows all predictions hold a grain of truth, and yes, she will leave him behind.

* * *

They end like this, they begin this way. Lara is running, deaf to the pounding of collapsing masonry, dodging crumbling pillars, dodging destiny.

_You don't believe in fate!_ an angry voice commands. _You make your fate yourself!_ She skids to a halt. But how? How?! Nobody answers, and she casts an anxious glance towards the circle of light ahead, to the darkness behind, the floor bucking under her feet like an angry prehistoric beast in the paroxysm of death. Inevitably, she makes her choice.

* * *

"Get up! Get the fuck up! You know bloody well I can't carry you!" God, she even talks like him now. "You've taken a little scratch, so what! Stop the drama and snap out of it!" He grimaces and blindly tries to shake off her hands. "Sleeping beauty!" she hisses, hoping that the insult will shock him into consciousness, and against all odds, he answers with a little hiccup of laughter and makes a half-hearted attempt to scramble up, before sagging on the ground.

Okay. She has no time for this shit. She draws her leg back and launches her most vicious kick, instantly rewarded by the sickening sucking sound of something soft giving way, and he breaths out a surprised _hmmph_ before blinking up at her with such reproach that she nearly laughs out loud. "Run, you idiot!" she shouts, and does exactly that.

She's fulfilled her part. And even while still trying to find her way out, driven by the spark of hope, or stubbornness, letting her legs, her arms, her whole body do the choosing (her mind has gone numb, shutting every door to the dreaded, unavoidable outcome of this situation, though not numb enough to forget what it'll be) she keeps on wondering why men will try so hard to correct old mistakes. You can't go back to the first, so you erase it, hide it under new mistakes. You forget, but gods don't. And when they come back, it's with a vengeance. You fight the gods, they make you pay for it. The trouble is, you don't pay with death. You pay with what comes _after_ death: not blankness, not oblivion, but a slow awakening in the loop of time, so that you may remember again.

Hell might be not the others, after all, but this. The repetition.

With her last strength, she hurls herself towards the white void above, clawing in desperation the slippery edges, feeling the pull of the abyss - and almost as she starts to think abstractedly that she _might_ be able, a black silhouette materializes against the light.

"Your hand! Give me your hand, quick!"

"Werner?" she whispers, and coughs. Dust in her mouth, in her eyes. An open hand, so close and so far away, a fatal Fata-Morgana. And she's not a bit surprised.

Hell. Repeating itself over and over again. No escape. She can do whatever she wants, but in this circular journey, the destination will always be one and the same. What can she do but laugh, straight into the face of fate.

Barking mad, she thinks.

"Give me your hand!"

Of all her recurrent dreams, only one never returned. It doesn't matter that she was too young, or too scared, for that wasn't why she chose to run away. "No. Not yesterday, not today. Not _ever_."

"LARA!!"

All right. So she's dead, she never got out in the first place, she's dead and dreaming. Her own little variations of the same dream. She can reach out for that hand or slap it away, it won't make a penny worth's difference, because in a while she'll wake up, hurting all over, and crawl, drag herself over the chafing hot sand to Ra's indifferent scrutiny. If you can't correct that first mistake, what's the point of even trying?

A piece of rock rolls past her, crushing one of her clutching hands. She cries out, a reflex to the sharp sudden pain, and wishes that at least it wouldn't hurt so much each time.

"Get lost," she croaks. She can't correct her mistake, but for the soul of her, she won't give him the gratification of correcting _his_. "I'll wash my hands in your blood."

"Sure you will, but now gimme your fuckin' hand!" Werner screams as flames shoot out around her, and the ledge crumbles to dust. And she falls, but the hand has closed around her wrist, and she's floating and then being dragged, sharp edges tearing her flesh in an agonizing birth; and through the deafening explosion she hears, far, far away, all the bells in this world tolling a welcome.

* * *

She lies on the hard ground, her dust-clogged lungs straining for air while the world settles again. Her eyes are tightly shut, but she can feel the tentative caress of the morning sun on her lids, gentle. Daylight, then - so she's out. And the ringing in her ears, it's not an omen or her busted eardrums; it is a merry chiming of many little bells. A small herd of scruffy goats, no shepherd in sight, just the startling glow of an oddly shaped eye glaring at her with such intense curiosity that she jumps, gasps, afraid for an instant that a new demon has come for her. But it's not, it's just a goat.

And it's not Werner, either, but Kurtis who's lying beside her, curled like a foetus and breathing so carefully that he hardly seems to be breathing at all.

His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw strained. He's a sorry sight. She tries weakly to grab his shoulder and shake him, but her hand seems to have gone on strike. Words, then - not that her tongue is showing any more desire to cooperate. After a maddening struggle, she manages to rasp out the first thing that flashes in her mind. A croak. She tries again, her tongue curling with effort over the sound of a name. "Kurrrt-" and then, with more aplomb, "Kurtis!"

"Wha'…?"

Well, well. So it still works. She sags back on the ground, and stares at the delicate shades of the dawning sky. Next thing she'll start laughing, but wait, that might hurt.

"Are you OK, Trent?"

He takes his sweet time answering, as if he's considering the question, which in her opinion is superfluous since he seems to be alive - and that should count as being 'ok' by their standards. Everything else is just marginal, decoration, froth. And a breathtaking hospital bill…

"No," he says at last, incredulity and indignation mingling in his voice. "I'm filing for divorce the minute I get out of the hospital. You busted my ribs with that kick."

She can think of a thousand remarks she could hurl back at him, but she'll save them for later. For now, she's fairly content with lying in the dust in some rocky field, with an awed crowd of goats for an audience, stunned into silence by this unexpected change of the libretto and their feeding routine. Just a moment more, then she'll get up and see she patches him up before he spills every last drop of his human blood, now that he has finally shed his angelic one, the idiot.

"Have you ever read Milton?" Lara muses, although she suspects Kurtis is in no state to carry a proper conversation, and even if he was, he probably thinks Milton is a horse, or a town in Ohio. But since endings have a way of being predictable, Lara has just decided it's all a matter of staying unpredictable in the details. "Well, you see, in the end Adam and Eve are thrown out of Eden and walk into the world, hand in hand …"

The smallest of the goats, having recovered from its initial shock, nuzzles at Kurtis, tugging at his shirt as if wanting to coerce him into moving, but actually just trying to get a good mouthful of it. Goats, she seems to recall, will swallow everything, suspicious creatures with an unhealthy habit. And there's not much to chomp at in this Arcadia of sorts, aside from his T-shirt.

"It was the other way round, I'm thinking. They were not leaving, but arriving."

"Were not." Kurtis coughs, spits out some blood, and tries weakly to swat the goat away from his clothes.

"Not arriving?"

"Not _hand in hand_," he grounds out gruffly.

"Oh," Lara says, just to have the last word.

Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of fabric, the goat scuttles closer for an inspection of her braid. When Lara tugs it out of reach, it shakes its head, forcefully, the motion making the bell on its neck tingle once. In the empty air, the single, pure note rises, rises, trembles and bursts like the shiniest golden bubble.

With a grin she reaches out, clasps Kurtis' hand and squeezes, hard enough to make him moan.


	28. Nothing is accidental

**NOTHING IS ACCIDENTAL**

_No way are those cups going to make it to this table…._

Lara watches him pick his way through the maze of tables and luggage, awkwardly balancing a tray that looks way too small in his too big hands. One hand, since the other one is in a sling. But when he finally reaches their table, only the smallest amount of coffee is swimming on the saucer, and she feels like clapping. After a lifetime of having her tea spilled by Winston, she's quite willing to overlook the finer details in favour of the big picture.

"Of course I didn't believe it for a minute," she resumes, stuffing paper napkins under the cup to absorb the spilt coffee. "You are a _boy_."

"Right," he answers, stung. "A brat. Virginal, unspoilt. Perfectly innocent until a wicked woman came along and offered me an apple."

"The one who offered the apple was you. I told you you had it all wrong, but you never listen."

A cheeky grin. "No, but I tempted you all right, didn't I."

"No point in resisting temptation, sometimes." She makes a quick mental note to discuss the issue with Patrick, enjoying it in advance. That's sure to send the poor priest reeling close to a heart attack.

"They'll kick you out of the convent, Croft." Kurtis nods, very matter-of-factly. "For blasphemy, if they don't for breaking your vows of celibacy…"

"A nun, but a patriotic nun. I closed my eyes and thought of England." She sighs with high drama, fanning air into her hot face. "Incredible, the sacrifices one makes to achieve certain goals..."

"Sacrifices, my ass." He taps his own face. "Hasn't been rearranged, after all."

Shouldn't take long to fix that, Lara thinks darkly. But then, that would mean she'd have to tow him back to Surrey and wait for his face to heal, and fat chance she'll do that before she's rearranged every bloody switch in the manor.

"But it was a ridiculous thing to say, me, "with child". Yours, as if the first weren't _per se_ ridiculous enough."

"The only ridiculous thing is how ridiculously easy it is to wind you up," he laughs. "Relax, woman."

It's comforting, his back-to-normal attitude. After the past few nights spent in whispering sweet nothings to each other, skilfully skating around the bigger issues (what will we do, how are we going to deal with this, what _is _this) for the sake of a moment of harmony, she's been faintly worried about her own ability to go through with this. Surely these past days, the unaccustomed intimacy that's grown out of nowhere - for no real reason she can think of, besides him being familiar with the handling of guns and a troubled life – deserves some kind of acknowledgement, but one that she can't quite bring herself to make. Kurtis' vertical descent into his usual irritating smugness is quite reassuring.

As if to ruin all her good resolutions, he sobers, leans over the table and grabs her hand. "You still sure it'd be a bad idea?"

She shrugs. "We'd fight all the time."

"Ah, no, you don't get a prize for guessing that," he says, turning her hand over and studying her palm with the concentration of a gypsy reading the future. "It's all written here, see. We'll have the most awesome quarrels that we'll use as a pretence for making out when we're done fighting. We'll have tons of ugly babies…"

She shoots him a very annoyed look and pulls away he hand. He laughs. "OK. The babies' ugliness I just exaggerated."

Lara sighs and wonders how much damage she'd really do if she punched the cast on his arm. It's not like the idea of babies has never crossed her mind –thank her hormones- but if there's anything like a recipe for disaster, that'd be it.

"No babies for me, thank you. I'd be a disastrous mother," she admits, sounding more gloomy than she'd like.

Kurtis signals her to be silent, a finger to his lips, and cocks his head, listening. And nods. "Our hypothetical child is sighing with relief, somewhere…"

He backs away too fast for her to land an effective blow. She glares at his laughing face, and suddenly knows how she's going to knock him down of _that_ horse. Yawning, she stretches and clasps her hands behind her head, faking a dreamy expression, "What a pity, though. I'd have had the perfect name for her…"

_There. Let him chew on that._

"_Her_?"

"Uh-huh," she nods. "She'd have been our 'Angelina'…"

He gives her the most comical look, before admitting defeat. "Good one, Croft. Round goes to you."

Oh boy, she likes to win, he thinks idly. He hates to lose, but he likes it when she looks all smug because she thinks she's winning. A bit. It's too complicated to explain, and anyway, this must be just his masochism talking here.

"I don't need a child, anyway. I have Winston."

"Huh?" he blinks, shaking himself. "Oh, right." Kurtis looks around, then lowers his voice to a whisper. "Do they make diapers that size?"

In shock, she laughs out loud. "I'm rather tempted to tell him you said that…"

"Jesus, please don't," he intercepts her quickly. "I owe him a lot of money. Just tell him I said Hi…"

Lara snorts, returning her attention to the coffee. He watches her, but he's envisioning a very long, very boring life under coconut trees. Very boring, because he's actually _enjoyed_ the mad roller-coaster ride with this crazy woman. Not that he's going to tell her that, since the boredom is the price he has to pay if he truly intends to enjoy the "very long" bit. Like hell he'll let her know. But she really is something, isn't she. Beautiful in spite of the parched lips and the peeling nose. And the black eye, swollen to a slit, from where a shrewd pupil is fixing him, sparkling. He extends his hand, palm up.

"And now, Croft, you'd better return it. Don't think for a moment I forgot about it."

With a half-grin she drops the bike's key into his hand. _Magpie_, he mouths, pocketing it quickly.

Or maybe he will, after all.

"Winston won't be around forever, you know?"

"Would you?" she retorts, so fast that in spite of himself, he is startled. She's good at this game, really good. And he's not at all pleased with the way the hammock in the sun is quickly losing most of its appeal.

"Nah," he drawls after a pause. "Probably not. Forever, I mean. I mean, like… 'forever'…" He spreads his hands, helpless. "That's just too… long."

"Yes," Lara says quietly, still looking at him. "Forever is way too long."

_Oh damn. Damndamndamndamn_…

_**Passengers boarding flight 321…**_

"So, where do you go from here?" she says, looking over her shoulder as if it's all too clear that his next destination is just the bar, and the worst part is, she's most likely right.

Obliterating, for the time being, all thoughts of Jack Daniels and beer and whatever magical potions make a man get over a broken heart, Kurtis shifts on his chair. "Remember what I told you about the island, the one I was staying before I got my father's letter? The picture?"

She nods, expectant.

"I was toying with the notion of buying myself a boat."

"Go on! You must be kidding me. Who do you think you are, Hemingway?"

She loves the way his eyes widen when he's caught by surprise, the way you can almost see his brain gearing up in an attempt to keep the upper hand, the boyish grin at being caught red-handed. The infectious way he laughs, tossing back his head.

"Aw, man. I _knew_ it couldn't be original. You think I should go and re-read that book?"

"Just steer clear of the sharks when you go fishing…" She drains the last of her coffee and the liquid collides with the laughter building up in the back of her throat, making her go into a wild coughing fit. Her eyes fill with tears. "The very idea! Kurtis Trent, dread of every fish in the seven seas. Kurtis Trent, fish-hunter." Her own wittiness is killing her, so the words come with great difficulty, but still she manages, "…of course, you've got to look at it from this point of view: you can't get hit by a coconut in the middle of the ocean…"

That, and his deep frown finish her off. She laughs so hard it sends her cup shattering against the floor.

Kurtis bends down and retrieves the pieces, shaking his head in commiseration. He waits patiently until she's half-way calm, ignoring the suspicious glances of the other customers. Then, he decides he may as well give her some of her own medicine.

"Now you know what you can bring me as a present. If you ever change your mind."

"A coconut?" she giggles, wiping her eyes.

"A book, silly. Uncle Ernest."

"Oh."

She stops laughing and looks at him, all watery eyes. And he's more than a bit annoyed by the way his heart is pounding They contemplate each other for what it seems like an eternity before she gives a slight nod.

"Maybe later."

He nods back, solemn. He wasn't really expecting a different answer, oh no. No reason, in fact, for the absurd rush of hope that's come crashing over him. Things like this, they come and go. As far as he's concerned, steering clear of Lara looks like more of a task than avoiding lurking sharks and murderous coconuts. And, considering his proverbial bad luck, chances are that they'll be running into each other again, sooner rather than later. Hell, she'll probably shoot him next time.

"You'll make a miserable fisherman, if you ask me, you've got no patience to speak of. But, at the end of the day, it might be better than killing people for money. You know, the salvation of the soul and so on…"

"Don't know. Suppose the fish would disagree, but I can't think of anything smarter. And it's what the people do there, anyway. They seem to have fun at it."

"Sounds like a reason." She grins. "Nice place?"

"Yup. Cool. Well, no, pretty hot actually. Nice people. Friendly. _Unaware_."

She nods. He gives her a thoughtful look.

"What about you? Going back to collecting shiny things?"

"It's a living," shrugs Lara.

_Maybe. Maybe not. Collecting artefacts, I mean. That it IS a living is without question._

_**Passengers boarding flight 1207 to...**_

"Hey," he says, perfectly coolly, in his opinion. "That must be yours..."

But she's suddenly serious, drawing damp circles on the table of the airport's lounge. "Kurtis, I want you to know something. At the time I met you, I was going through a pretty rough patch. Raiding tombs was my reason to live and I lost it, under a few tons of rock and Egyptian sand. But that isn't really the point, you know. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm not afraid of pain."

She lifts her face and meets his alarmed glance. A picture, frozen like a painting, flashes before her eyes. Herself, sitting in the dark, holding a snapshot. Somewhere else, another place, a long time ago. And how did she ever think nothing could be read in those eyes…

"The point is… oh, I don't know!" she shakes her head, flustered with embarrassment. "What I mean is... the last thing I saw, before I lost my life but went on living, was his face. Werner's. The person who was possibly the strongest influence in my life, sometimes for good, but mostly for bad. I hated him, but I loved him too, isn't that sad?"

"No, it's very… Freudian."

For a moment, all she can manage to do is stare at him, speechless. "Tell me, are you really cultured or do you just hit the target through sheer luck?"

Kurtis smirks. "You were saying…?"

She huffs. "Stop trying to sidetrack me. If you don't want to hear this, just say so."

As a matter of fact, Kurtis is not at all sure he does, but this seems to be important to her, this odd soul cleansing, and it's out of pure courtesy he nods. "OK. I'm listening."

"Isn't it strange, how close hatred is to love? I hated him, with a passion, but not because I thought he was better than me, or more capable. I hated him because he knew, more than anyone, what _I_ was capable of. When Karel turned... do you want to know what I saw?"

_No I don't_, he thinks, but by then she's already moved on, words rushing out of her in breathless blurts, a chain of non sequiturs. "Everything that happened, I had seen before. Call it Karel, or Seth, or the queen of bloody Atlantis, all they ever are is different manifestations of the very same thing. And at last I understand why they never stopped following me. Karel wanted me because he thought I was him - like him. Not his kin by blood, like you, but akin by spirit. And he was dead right." She pauses, rubs her eyes. "Somehow, though, I was given another chance. To prove myself. Werner... well, he must have known. I forced him to become one of them, didn't I, and I think once he woke up he... he changed, you know. He was… holding up a mirror, but I didn't want to look. It made me so angry, that he should all of a sudden start acting like a gentle, forgiving father. He was not _supposed_ to be that. He wasn't supposed to forgive me, make me feel obliged to forgive him in return. He was my whip, my driving force. He kept me going, but my fuel was rage, and that hurts."

Kurtis looks away. Last thing he wants is to start moping too, but her fury, her shame, they are like echoes of his own. Echoes in hollow places, long abandoned.

"Hey, Lara..." he whispers.

"No, let me finish," she says. "You know. You of all people, you know. What it's like, what it feels like, when your only purpose is payback. When the only true focus you have, the only drive, is the wish to shove their bloody mirror back into their faces and say 'I am just what you make me be.' That I said a million times, and it still didn't stop hurting. Such pride, to avenge someone you can't forgive. And that's what I did, took my revenge and didn't forgive. Spent years, _years_, hating him for what he wasn't, and not once, not for a second, seeing him for what he was. Not my nemesis - the only nemesis I've ever had is myself. He was just a man. An old man, a hurt man, a weak man. Human. Just a man." Her voice breaks.

_To take a step back and see beyond detail. To lift the kaleidoscope and force the eye to look, see not the shards of coloured glass but the (big) picture…, __the big picture inside the Big Picture, which is a picture within a larger, and a larger, and a larger one, like concentric ripples in the largest mystic pond of time, and space, and geometry, and Quantum physics. And grief, and guilt, and every little thing that shapes our perception and charts our memories, till the map becomes so immense that the straining eye is swimming in tears._

"Thank you," she speaks out in a low voice, but fierce, determined, "for grabbing my hand and pulling me out…"

"Huh. You're welcome."

"Kurtis, I'd lived through that moment before, do you see? It was like a… ah, well, who cares."

"No. Go on."

"It was like a revelation."

He thinks he'd better let it rest. She could be talking right out of his soul. Where has his own rage gone to? Maybe there'll be some kind of redemption in leading an anonymous life, after all. Fishing, why not? You forgive, then you can start forgetting. You move on.

_**Passengers boarding flight 1207 to London Heathrow, please proceed to gate…**_

"There you are. Your flight," Kurtis says.

But she goes on gnawing at her bottom lip, her whole face set in concentration. "Still, the opportunistic old jackal just wasn't the type to leave anything to chance. Do you think…" she stops, hesitant - because what does she think herself? That shuffling the coordinates will relativize the equation to a more manageable size?

"That they set us onto each other? Damn right I do. Otherwise I'd have to admit it was fate, and I'm not going to accept that I'm some tumbling boulder..."

"A _what_?"

"A boulder. You know, piece of rock rolling downhill, doomed to smack into…"

"That's not fate, that's physics," Lara smiles. "Oh well, let's leave it at that. Accidents, then."

"I don't know…" Kurtis becomes all pensive. "You crash once, that's an accident. Crash twice, a coincidence. Three times and you're just a very unlucky person. But ten times... well, by then you'd better be suspecting that what you really are is a very stubborn little figure banging its head against the Grand Scheme."

"I expect the wall has caved in by the tenth time, but I adore your analogy," Lara laughs, wiping her eyes.

"Yeah, well…" he shakes his head, blushing a bit, "with a thick head like mine, no doubt." He glances up, draws a deep breath. "It wasn't an accident."

She exhales, slowly. It feels like something uncoiling inside, like shedding an old skin and stepping out to stand, raw and naked, under inclement weather.

With all her features sharpened like this, mouth parted, leaning closer, she looks like the most lost puppy in the world, an eager fox cub with the biggest, saddest eyes.

_Oh shit_, Kurtis blanches. _How's that for sappy poetry_.

"Show me that picture!"

"You're gonna miss that plane…" Testily, Kurtis takes it out, scowling only a little as she yanks it out of his hand.

"This is Madame Carvier! Margot Carvier, the Louvre Curator! She was a-"

"Yeah, well. Keeper of the fourth painting. Women's lib even got to the Lux Veritatis…" he cringes, trying to recall if he ever felt this awkward before.

Holy crap, why can't she shut up and go?

"Bloody, bloody hell, you- you- liar! You did know, and you just wouldn't tell me!"

Sad eyes or not, he's most certainly not going to let her get away with calling him a liar. A bluff, a romantic, a cheater, that's all fine and well. A spoiled brat, okay, and perhaps even an idiot. But no one, _no one_ will call him to his face a-

"Liar!"

He bridles. "Hey, how did I know the old cow was screwing your professor? I hadn't a clue, what do you think? It's not like they warned me, Kurtis, watch your step, 'cause you're bound to slam hard into the hardest, unyielding, most majestic, most irritating wom-" one look at her stunned face, and his defensiveness gives way to the smuggest slow grin Lara's ever witnessed. "Wall," he concludes, nodding emphatically. "A _wall_."

"But... but... you spoke to her! You _knew_ I had been there!"

"Er, actually, no. Never got around to it. Just as I was arriving, I saw you jump out of the window…"

Her jaw drops.

"Into a trash can…" he adds, most unhelpfully.

She clamps it shut. "And now is the moment when you admit you fell instantly in love."

"Me?!" he scowls back. Oh sweet Jesus…"Oh no no no, no way. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Karel!"

Lara drops the picture and sinks her face into her hands. "I should have known," she mutters wretchedly. "Her ring…"

"Margot's?"

She nods. "A bit like yours."

"Well, yes, I suppose so. The coordinates. Each one of us had a set of their own."

Lara peers out from under her fingers. "I stole it."

He _is_ taken aback, but when he sees how miserable she looks, he just leans over and pries her hands open. "Ah, don't worry, Croft. It was no use to her anymore. Keep it as a token."

"I can't. I took it to the pawnshop…" she confesses, face flushed and bottom lip quivering, "... and then... well. Ka-Boom!"

Kurtis gives her a startled look and slumps back into his chair, laughing his head off. "Jesus…"

_**Passengers boarding flight…**_

"All right," he says, collecting himself as best he can under the circumstances, "you keep the picture, then."

Slowly she lifts it up again, searching the paper faces. All dead. Ghosts. Even the child, buried under the layers of years. At the end, all that remains is a piece of paper, sent by a ghost, showing more ghosts, a coded message for the still living. The dead can hold the living in a tight grasp, but how lonely it feels when they finally let go.

_Too immense a map. Gazillions of stars and each one a whole universe.__ Spinning and rotating, crisscrossing the sky, pushing closer and pulling further, whirling into a ring of centrifugal radiance, spiralling into the vortex of a single Supernova, a pin sharp point of light. Too bright to look at and not to cry, too quick in passing to hold and cherish, __too immense a pattern to see and recognize…_

_Ach ja, wir Narren, _sighs Werner, and the voice is weak, receding, fading away. _Such folly._ _The pattern, we can't see. We only can trust that it's there. It's called a leap of-_

_**Passengers boarding flight…**_

"Think I'd rather stay here, Croft, and get blitzed," Kurtis says, trying to sound casual, but betrayed by his hoarse voice. "You're a big girl, you can find your gate all on your own."

She will, he's right. She'll always find her gate, her way through. She'll always be _**able**__._

Lara smiles and pushes the picture towards him, before standing up and shouldering her backpack. "I've done quite a few foolish things in my life. But walking away from you… that's my biggest folly."

He reaches out, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "_I'm_ letting you go. Can't beat that."

Their fingers brush lightly over the old snapshot. _Gazillions of stars_. Look up and make a wish, hold the moment a second longer before it finally lets you go.

Surrendering to an unfamiliar rush of tenderness, Lara places a kiss on her fingertips before stroking gently, not the expectant lips of the man in front of her, but the paper lips of the long lost boy.


	29. Sphinx

**SPHINX**

"What is this, the grand family reunion?" Lara grumbles as the door is opened once more and the familiar, Russian voice starts effusively greeting Winston in the hall.

"I have nothing to do with it," the priest laughs, making himself comfortable in the deep armchair. "I'm only here to collect my mobile."

"I know, this has Winston written all over it. What is he trying to do now, drive me out of my own home?"

"Where is my doll?!" someone shouts, very loud, in the hall. Lara groans.

"I hate being called 'doll…'" She leans forward and looks squarely at the Father's amused face. "And I don't appreciate being manipulated…"

"Looks like I've missed a lot…" a puzzled Jean-Yves throws in, scratching his head.

"You just arrived too late, as usual," Lara replies, sparing him the shortest glance. "I'm afraid your mobile passed away, Pat. Shall I get you a new one?"

Father Patrick holds his hands up, signaling surrender. "Never mind. Maybe I'm here just for the company… "

"He's here for the vodka, want to bet?" Lara tells Jean-Yves, who, good Catholic that he is, shuffles on his feet and manages to look at least a bit uncomfortable. She rolls her eyes.

"Would you believe that all the time he was here, Winston was telling him every bloody detail about my life?"

"Telling who?" Jean-Yves can't resist interrupting again. Lara chooses to ignore him. "One of these days I'll cart him off to a nursing home."

The priest laughs as if she'd said the funniest thing ever. "No you won't."

Covering her face, she sinks back into her chair. "Sad, but true. No nursing home would have him." From between her fingers, she casts a troubled look at Patrick. "At the end of the day, it seems that Winston understands trust a lot better than I'll ever be able to."

"_Nom de Dieu_! I rush here all the way from Alexandria and then..." the Frenchman blanches, and hurriedly blurts in a tiny voice, "_Excusez-moi, mon Père_…"

The priest winks, though his eyes are set on Lara.

"We are all full of weakness and errors; let us mutually pardon each other our follies…"

"That doesn't sound biblical…" Lara says, frowning.

"Because it's _Voltaire_," Jean-Yves points out, sounding slightly offended.

"So I'm supposed to forgive you manipulative lot, including Werner…"

The priest presses his fingers into a triangle, looking thoughtfully at her face, this woman he has known for such a long time, this woman he doesn't know at all. "Child, it's nothing so simple. You see, every man's got to decide for himself what he trusts. I trust that forgiving makes a heart lighter."

They remain silent for a while, until Lara speaks again, choosing her words with great care. "Why, if all of you were so certain that I was wrong, did not _one of you_ ever tell me before? Try to make me see things in a different light?"

The priest looks gravely at her lowered head. "Would you have listened, Lara?"

"I would, if someone cared to fill me in." Jean-Yves offers.

After dispatching the inopportune Frenchman with an icy glare, Lara turns back to the priest. "I want to see his grave. Where is it, exactly?"

"Père Lachaise."

"Oh dear, that one is huge. Give me some coordinates."

"You can't miss it, Lara…"

As if suddenly understanding, Jean-Yves throws his head back and laughs.

Lara looks from one to the other, her eyes widening with horrified delight. "Really that bad?"

"You know Winston…" the priest and the Frenchman volunteer in unison.

"God help us. And now he's made it into the most exclusive club! Delacroix, Dumas, Jim Morrison..." Lara ticks her fingers. "Edith Piaf. I'd better not ask where the money for a cemetery plot among such distinguished company came from."

It would be indeed a stupid question, judging by the sudden way Jean-Yves busies himself with the unlit fire, while the priest seems to have developed a remarkable interest for the state of his fingernails.

"Ah, here she is! Larissa!" Jurij storms into the room, brandishing a bottle of vodka high over his head. She stands up, out of pure reflex.

"What are you doing?" she gasps as Jurij's beefy arm falls around her neck, as the others line up behind them, as he lifts a stretched arm, one finger on the button and aims and...

"Don't you bloody d-!" Lara screams, cowering behind her arms. Too late.

"Perfect." The Russian studies the camera's display. "Everyone looks terrific, apart from you, Larissa. You look whiter than Siberia in winter, but it still is a fine family shot. Isn't life something to celebrate! Winston, my friend, where's the glasses?"

"I'll get them-" She uses the chance to slip under Jurij's arm and flee the gathering, pausing just a second at Winston's side to whisper: "You, 'my friend', are in for a _very_ cold season…"

The butler nods, whispering back. "BA 1256, Heathrow – Charles de Gaulle, leaves at 10.15 p.m. Optionally extended to La Réunion, day after tomorrow. Booked Economy, to save a little…"

Ten p.m. means she really must hurry. Halfway through the hall she catches her reflection in the window and stops in her tracks. Against the darkness outside, she's a whitish blur, adrift in a sea of shadow. Everything she is, a blank, a mystery even to herself, conflict, chaos, the prism throwing colours on an empty canvas. "Can I forgive you?" she asks quietly, and waits for an answer, holding her breath. But none comes, just the silence, the tick-tock of the clock, the faraway exclamations and laughter, Jurij's boastful voice shouting _Nosdrovje!_ "Can you forgive me?" she whispers at the Sphinx in the window.

If the windowpanes rattled, shuddered, the glass bending in, stretching like a bubble until imploding, the night would spill in. But there's nothing out there. Nothing out there. This is just her, the Sphinx in the mirror.

A mirror to a Sphinx.

_A shrink or a holiday_, thinks Lara.

Thinks, this is what I am, the Sphinx.

I ask, because I have no answers.


	30. Faith's mule

**FAITH'S MULE**

Think of a graveyard. White marble angels, black iron crosses. Autumn, and the trees are shedding their leaves. They're golden, brown, the deepest, deepest red.

And of course she knows straight away. It stands out so clearly, it looks so incongruous, so misplaced among all those symbols of belief. Kind of monstrous, really, the lion's body with the blank human face, the mocking smile meeting her own. As much as Winston's artistic extravagances never fail to stun her, this time the old butler has excelled himself with a masterpiece of hair-raising profanity. Oh, he must be spinning in his grave, trapped forever under this stony smile.

Crouching down, she brushes the fallen leaves off the inscription between the massive paws, and almost laughs out loud. But the late afternoon air is chilly, despite the feeble efforts of the sun, and the silence too absolute, and so she places her hand on the face of the Sphinx instead, rests her forehead against it.

_Speak to me, Guardian of the Veil, Patron of Orphans and Lost Souls, Messenger of the dead, Head of a jackal. Weigh my heart on your scale, it is light like a feather. Speak to me, Anubis, ask me a riddle, force me to answer. This journey, this journey we do alone, but if you speak to me, it'll be easier to bear. For it's not fate, but faith that wills us forwards. So, we pick up things along the way. Sometimes we feel them trembling in our hands, the translucent wings of a moth, so fragile, so ephemeral. But our souls are meagre, who could blame us for our mistakes. And still, when darkness sets in, we make our choices. And we may sometimes choose to trust the hand that reaches out for ours, or we may just choose the fall. Here and again we may even choose to trust that, for a short while, we're not travelling alone._

'May I be strong on earth before Ra, may I arrive safely in the presence of Osiris. Let me fly like a hawk, let me cackle like a goose, let me always lay...'

All the times she has plead with him to be silent, and now he won't talk. It's so bloody typical! With a sigh, she sits down at the feet of the Sphinx and leans back against it. The dark stone feels very cold. Cold, but not uncomfortable. It must be her heart that's keeping her warm, her feather-light heart.

_Go ahead, old rascal, laugh at me. Think that you're leading me again if you want, dangling a carrot before my dumb nose. You be fate's carrot, then I'll be faith's mule, and off we'll go in the merry-go-round, tripping again and again over the same old stone. Yet the ass will tread on blindly, trusting the way the carrot points. And yes, it is folly, but what monsters we'd be if we weren't such fools._

She gives the Sphinx's paw an amiable pat, and then curls between its arms, hugging herself, because there's no one else here to hug. Nothing left but an all-knowing, nothing-telling smile.

_Next time I see you, Werner, I'm going to kick your arse from here to China and laugh all the way. But then, maybe I'll just accept your hand…_

She isn't expecting an answer, and she doesn't get one. He's silent for good, and maybe the silence means nothing, or only that, for all they love them, the dead can never hold to the living for long. But how lonely, how lonely it feels when they finally let go.

Does she feel it? The high ringing buzz in her ears, the soft down on her nape bristling to attention at the breezy caress brushing her temple - that part of the body where the soul is closest to skin, the _hippocampus_, temple of memories? Old wives' tales would say 'someone has walked over your grave'. But it might be just a leaf falling, a rush of air, nothing more. Or an angel, reaching out with cold, soothing fingers. Passing by, blown away. A second, and then it's gone.

_-Finis-_

* * *

**This is the end of _Folly_. The remaining chapters are, like the opening one, optional.**


	31. Epilogue

_EPILOGUE_

When I hear Baba shouting 'Madou come here, _mais vite'_, I wonder for a moment if _Oreille_ has been digging again under the chicken wire that _Le sale Requin_ put around his brand new coop, because I wasn't paying attention and he went off by himself and it's been quite a while that he's gone, and that means he's up to no good. I peer carefully from under the veranda, just in case, but Baba is only talking to a woman, his back to me, but then his hand comes down as if he knew all along where I've been hiding. By the collar of my favourite shirt he drags me out, and I'm standing there gaping at the woman while Baba says how I'm to show her to where _le Requin_'s hut is.

She is white and tall, taller than Baba. I can't see her eyes because she's wearing sunglasses, but her hair is very pretty in a long braid, and I am sure Marie-Céleste will die of envy, for she's only got short braids, but lots of them. I want to tell Baba I'd rather wait till she's come back from school, but then I think he might smack me, so it's better to do as he tells me right now.

The woman is wearing shorts and big boots. _Oreille_ appears out of nowhere to sniff at the boots and I'm afraid he'll try to pee on them, but the woman just bends down and with two fingers plucks a feather off his snout, and then she smiles at me, and this is how I fall in love.

We set along the shore for _Le Requin Sale_'s house, and my heart is thumping so fast because of the way she smiled at me, and I am trying hard to come up with something so smart that will show her I'm as smart as any grown-up, so smart that it will maybe convince her to marry me once I've finished growing.

So I tell her, "You are lucky, because he says he'll be leaving again soon, when his boat is ready."

"Oh. He did buy a boat, then?"

I nod, but I don't tell her what Baba says about that boat being like a colander, and what else would you expect of a boat built by _Le sale Requin_. I think the boat is starting to look very nice, although I was a bit sad to see the bike go. _Le Requin_ says I'll give you a ride the day you learn to keep that dog away from my chickens. That dog means _Oreille_. Thinking of the boat and the injustice of Marie-Céleste getting a ride every morning now, what with _le Requin_ being her Baba and all, makes me feel kind of sadder, and I sigh so deep that my chest feels like it is going to burst.

"The boat is a _trial_. If he gets it to float, then he can go." This trial word I say in _anglais_ because he couldn't think of the French word, but I know it means like getting at least one thing right before you move on. You move on to _Ah-mérica_, says Marie-Céleste, and don't try my patience. But she doesn't know a thing, she's only a little girl.

"Not to _Ah-mérica_..." I say aloud although I was only thinking, and the woman gives me a funny look, and I can see these two Madous bouncing on her shades. Maybe she'll let me have them, and then I'll look like a rock-star. But I can feel she's impressed and she's listening to me and making me feel all important, and then it is like I just can't stop speaking.

"To _l'Eeengaland-e,_" I explain, and I point out to where it lies, way out in the sea. "You need a boat because it's an island. Over there."

I'm quite startled when she makes this strange sound, because I'm afraid I've gone and said the wrong thing and it's making her cry, but when I look up, she is only laughing. I don't know if she's laughing at me, and my ears are burning so hot that I have to run, and in no time I'm at _Le Requin_'s hut. I see Kurtis by the boat, and I jump and wave and jump some more, and _Oreille_ runs to him barking a lot, and he stoops to pat his head, and with all the commotion he doesn't notice her until she's come way too close. Actually, I wanted to be the one to tell him about her coming, and her braid, and how we are going to marry, but then I don't mind because he has that look on his face like he's going to drop dead or start crying, or both, but only because he's so pleased.

And this I don't understand, because I can't yet read the name he painted on the boat, but one look at it and she grins like _Oreille_ when he looks at the chickens, and then she puts her hand on her hip, like this, and says, "Mrs. Smith?" And here's where I'm hoping she's just his sister, or something, so I don't have to go and marry Marie-Céleste.

****

**The End**

**Well, almost...**

* * *

**To write Folly, I borrowed lots of stuff from many different sources. Even though most of my inspirers ****don't dwell among the living, they have to be credited all the same -copyright is a bitch-**

**So here is a list of what I used (in no particular order):**

**-The opening verses are from Rainer Maria Rilke's "Duino Elegies"; translation by R. Hunter-**

**-From Boris Pasternak's "Doctor Zhivago", a few names-**

**-Arias from "Tosca", by Giacomo Puccini-**

**-The Croft Manor's rules were inspired by John Irving's "Cider House Rules". Which is, btw, the paperback Lara ****found in Kurtis bag-**

**-"Le Serpent Rouge" is quoted all through the fic-**

**-A bunch of biblical textes, most notably excerpts from the Book of Enoch, Book of Daniel, Genesis, Jubilees, Song of Solomon and The Apocalypse of St. John, better known as "Revelations"-**

**-The Egyptian Book of the Dead, compiled and interpreted by EA Wallis Budge-**

**-Latin sayings from Catullus, Cyrus, Ovid. One, translated, from Francis Bacon-**

**-Lara suffering from magpie-syndrome has been a steady feature in the fanverse for as long as I remember. I don't know who came up first with such a brilliant diagnose, but I have a strong suspicion that I -unconsciously- plagiarized someone else's fic: "This is Business" by Chirugal. Amy, I apologize.-**

**-One or two sentences are literal quotes of "Reborn in Shadow". For those I do not apologize since I asked before using them. Anyone who can spot them can go to Jordy and demand a muffin. -**

**-That fabulous quip on mirrors is not mine. It belongs to Jean Cocteau-**

**-"Faith, the least exclusive club..." This superb aphorism I borrowed from David Mitchell's excellent "Cloud Atlas"-**

**-A line in one of the last chapters is from Laurie Anderson's "The day the devil"-**

**-The story of a scar, and the scar itself, are property of my wonderful, annoying boyfriend. So are a few of ****Kurtis' most annoying remarks-**

**-And more Kurtis: the lines in French (Chapter 26) are actually the last words of Guillaume de Beaujeu, 21st Grandmaster of the Knights Templar until his death during**** the fall of Acre in 1291 AD-**

**-During the Albingensian crusade, after the surrender of the town of Béziers, and when asked how to tell apart the "true" Christians from the "heretic" Cathars, ****the Papal legate, Arnaud Amaury, responded: "Kill them all, God will know his own." And kill them all they did. The i****nfamy men are capable of commiting in the name of God!-**

**-The "Canso de la Crosada", a medieval text by Guilhem de Tudela, proved useful for the Occitan-**

**-Mr and Mrs Smith, the movie-**

**-And Milhouse's (yup, from the Simpsons) name for a secondary character. Because I love Milhouse. When I grow up I'm gonna marry him, if Lisa hasn't-**

**-Last but not least, some of the dialogue appeared in the original TR games. Most of it in "Last Revelation"-**

XXX

**A few words concerning Folly's background mythology**

**-The Nephilim first appear in the Old Testament, but their alleged progenitors, the 'Watchers', are a much older mythos originating in Mesopotamia. Modern archeology believes that the biblical Deluge that destroyed them -and their civilization- was the "novelisation" of a Megaflood in the Tigris / Euphrates delta around 16,000 years ago-**

**-The grail as a stone from heaven, the "Lapis Exillis" (or Lapis ex-coelis), which actually predates the concept of the grail as the holy chalice, appears as such in the "Parzival" by Wolfram von Eschenbach. Who in turn ****borrowed the lot from the oldest opus focusing on the grail, Chretién de Troyes "Percéval, le Conte du Graal". Chretién was related to Hugh de Payens, founder of the Templar order. This is why some sources claim the Templars went to Jerusalem _knowing_ the grail was buried under Solomon's temple. A distinctive feature of said temple were its two black and white pillars, Jachin and Boaz, crowned with carvings of stylized lilies; and the Temple itself, so says the Talmud, had been built by the demon Asmodeus (ASMODAI, a rather ambiguous character derived from the Persian deity AESHMA), who had been tricked into servitude by King Solomon. Please note that the lily was, as the name implies, the flower of Lilith, the first woman, sometimes depicted as mother of Asmodeus, sometimes as her consort, and sometimes as the wife of Samael (the same archangel that seduced Eva disguised as a serpent and fathered Cain). The lily went to become the emblem of the Merovingians -the "sorcerer kings", who claimed themselves to carry both the blood of Cain and of Christ (hence, the House of David / Solomon), and imo, the Lux Veritatis sign is faintly reminiscent of it. The _fleur de lys_ stands, to this day, for the Royal House of France.-**

**As for Acre: since Jerusalem had long been lost to the Saracens, we can assume the grail was speedily removed to the last bastion in the Holy Land, St Jean d'Acre. This is, of course, poetic license, but fact is that the entire army of Templars stationed there died defending their garrison, when they could have very well fled the doomed city, like most inhabitants did-**

**-On Cathars: fans of conspiracy theories like to link Catharism with the Knights Templars. There is no historical proof for this, but it is remarkable that the Templars _refused_ to participate in the Albingensian crusade that exterminated them. Several grail legends claim that, by then, the grail was kept at _Montségur_, the last Cathar stronghold. Also popular nowadays is the notion that the grail was never an artefact, but a bloodline, namely the Solomonic - Merovingian. Cathars were numerous in the Languedoc in Southern France; and the ruling family in the region were the Trencavels. They lost all their lands and titles defending the people under their protection, but until 1247 they managed to keep the castle of _Limoux_.**

XXX

**-Any similarities between this fic and 2001 Space Odyssey are not random-**

XX

**All locations are real and I tried my best to stay true to the spirit of the places described. In order of appearance, Prague, ****England, Ireland, Munich (Isarauen, Asam Church), Venice (the "Gritti Palace" hotel, "La Fenice", Albergho ai Pini), ****Akko in Israel (the Templar's tunnel) and La Réunion.**

X

**THANK YOU TO:**

**all illustrious dead that made a cameo appearance: Jean Paul Sartre, Stanley Kubrick, Kurt Cobain, Antonio ****Vivaldi, Gustav Mahler, Jerry Lee Lewis, John Milton, Ernest Hemingway. And (whoa, all in one sentence!) Dumas, Delacroix, Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf.**

**As I'm writing this, Jack Nicholson and Clint Eastwood are still alive, but thanks as well.**

**Thanks to Zoe, aka Frau von Croy, for giving Madou a voice.**

**Thanks to Core Design for the many years of joyful tombraiding.**

**Thanks to everyone that read, reviewed, criticized, willed me ****forwards. **

**And a special thanks to Jordy, Nephilic Overmind, Mistress of the Many Mice, Ruler of Dark Pits, Patient Beta. Without you, I wouldn't have come so far. Everything good in this fic, I owe to you.**

**Akkon**


	32. The lost follies

**A/N: This is the bonus you get for coming so far :) Some of these scenes were cut out of the original fic, some take place immediately after. They are the missing parts of the puzzle, if you want, and it's up to you to sort them out (although I did number them, to facilitate the task...) **

**For obvious reasons, the few smutty scenes were not included, but they can be read at the Sanitarium. If you are not a member, you're welcome to contact me and ask for the Director's cut, which comes complete with pictures, diagrams, _et cetera_.**

**And if you proceed to the next page, you'll find there the evil beta's reveng- er, collaboration. Ok, she is funny, the evil beta, but I'm warning you: she can't be trusted. She is a Karel fan, and because of that, she'd try anything to thwart my intended happy end for Kurtie and Lara. Even ruining their hammockerotic fantasies.**

**(Btw... how come she knows so well what happens when one tries out that trick? Methinks the beta is concealing something from us...)**

* * *

-**_The lost follies-_**

…_can't understand the loneliness that always accompanied me, each one of us, and I hope for you that you never get a chance to understand it. You're right that much of you owes existence to that loneliness, and much to the plain need for someone to carry on. But one thing I know, and you also, even if you never come around to accept it: my motives for having a son were selfish, but I paid for it, and I paid through love. Not the love I owed to my follower, my king, my emblem, but the helpless, aching love I couldn't stop feeling for my human son._

_Your father_

XXX

**-12-**

"Purple pyjamas."

"Huh?"

"He was wearing purple pyjamas. Silk purple pyjamas."

"Whowaswhat?" Kurtis asks, completely lost.

"Winston. Purple!" Lara shakes her head, looking fairly mystified herself.

He switches the TV off and rolls to his side, propping his head up to stare down at her. "Whatya talking about, woman?!"

"He was wearing…" she starts repeating patiently, as if this is some gem of invaluable information he's supposed to know. Man, if she doesn't have a strange talent for ruining every moment of post-coital peace…

"Hell, Croft, damned if I have a clue what-!" …and then, a sudden thought strikes him. "_When_?"

"That time you stole your frisbee. Put me in the fridge, remember?"

"Would you listen to her!" he cries out, battling the urge to put his hands around her neck and squeeze. "I stole My Own Chirugai! She could have simply handed it back, but no, milady has to go and have it the hard way, because-."

She's not listening. Frowning, he reels back "He was in his pajamas? So?"

"Purple…" she repeats, lost in her own galaxy. And then she turns her gaze to him, as if she really expects him to come up with a logical explanation. Damn, he'll kiss her instead. Kurtis exhales a deeply felt sigh.

"Ok, Croft, let's see. The old bloke was wearing…" his voice tails away as he tries to bring this particular memory back, but truly, he never paid that much attention to what Winston was wearing. Ancient or not, the old fool was pointing at him with a goddam _gun_. He shakes his head. "Alright, then. Purple might be an odd choice for a seventy three years old guy but…"

"Eighty."

"Aah, now, and if he was a hundred. Let a man live…"

"With ducks on it."

"_Ducks?_"

"Ducks. I think it was ducks."

"Where the hell does he buy his clothes?!"

"That's exactly what I was asking myself."

Both lay silent for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, and then Lara adds: "I don't know if I want to find out…"

For once, he fully agrees, and so decides not to mention the array of rubber ducks Winston keeps on his dresser.

XXX

**-5-**

"Cosy," is his dry comment on Winston's lodgings.

The butler just fixes him with a haughty, cold stare. "Crossing her might not be the best method."

"Right, I should have let her shoot me," Kurtis snaps, slamming Winston's rifle on top of the dresser. "And what the fuck did you think you were doing out there, old man?! This thing hasn't been cleaned in fifty years! At best, you'd have blown off your own goddamned face!"

Winston slumps on the edge of his bed, looking both very tired and very old.

With an exasperated sigh Kurtis rakes his hands through his head. "Look, I won't harm a hair on her head, ok? On yours, either. Not that you have that many left…"

"I've known her since she was barely a couple of hours old. I'm only a butler, but she's like a grandchild to me. God knows she doesn't have anything better…"

"I'm not surprised, from the way she goes about things. She's insane!" Kurtis stalks to the door and yanks the key out of the lock. "Why dontcha take a break and watch TV for a while? I'll fetch you when I'm done here." He throws the door open, and then hesitates, the angered mask slipping off the tiniest bit. "Keep her here, man. For her own sake."

"I don't think," Winston says carefully, "that's in my power, should she get it into her head otherwise."

"Someone ought to give the chick a good spanking," Kurtis grumbles, "teach her not to stick her nose in other people's business." As he catches the alarm in Winston's eyes, he softens enough to allow himself a slow grin. "I won't, don't fret. Not yet, that is."

XXX

**-2-**

"Would you like to say hello to her?" He offers Kurtis the receiver, but the younger man does not answer. He's standing very still, his uplifted, absorbed face awash in a rainbow of colours.

"He can't right now," Mathias speaks into the receiver again. "Well, you'll see him tonight anyway. Tomorrow, at the latest." He pauses, listening to the hurried words at the far end of the line. "Yes, of course, _bien sur_… _Veritas Lux mea_. In another life, my friend."

He hangs up slowly, and looks at Kurtis. It's incredible, how much the boy looks like Konstantin. A younger, angrier Konstantin. But he's not angry now, he's just… mesmerized. Smiling, Vasiley goes to stand at his side. "You like it? It's a Mucha…"

Kurtis swallows, absently. "She's holding the Chirugai…"

"A winged disk, and a falcon," nods Vasiley. "Do you know what it means?"

Kurtis shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze from the magnificent _vitraux_.

"This," Mathias speaks softly, his hand pointing at the crucified man, "is you." Dante and Leonardo gaze steadily back, their painted eyes following Vasiley's hand rising, rising, to a woman's face, waiting in shadow. "And this, my brother… is your guardian angel."

XXX

**-9-**

"One more word and you're dead."

"You wouldn't shoot me in the middle of an airport, Croft, would you."

"Try me."

"Ah, come on, you wouldn't. Think of the mess," he laughs, but then something changes in his face. He leans forwards. "Say, you armed?"

Lara gives him a blank look.

"In an airport? In _Israel_? _No shit_?"

As she doesn't answer he grows alarmed. "Right," he slams both hands on the table and makes as to stand up. "I don't know you."

"Sit back down," she orders, trying not to laugh. "I'm not."

He obeys, although the suspicious look on his face doesn't disappear. Lara isn't fully sure, but she thinks he mutters something like "Barking mad."

XXX

**-3-**

Human emotions, he knows them all. The names for them, their glossy surface, and even though their essence has remained incomprehensible, alien to him, he knows what to call this one now. Fear, for the first time in aeons, impossible, laughable, and yet downright out-of-the-gut fear. Fear of the man at his feet.

This man, he has never seen before, but his perception runs deeper than his eyes, and as his hand inches closer to him, recognition makes his fingertips tingle, fills the space separating them with waves of heat, a glimmering bluish haze, as if he were trying to push his hand through a membrane of elastic time.

"Go," he hoarsely tells the skinny man beside him, (the "Weasel", was that it?) briefly wondering why it's suddenly so difficult to speak their language, keep his mask up. "Go, we've got it."

The Weasel nods, shiftily, sensing the fear but not understanding it (another soldier, another comrade, isn't he just that?) "I'll get Gunderson," he mumbles, backing off with widened eyes.

Jachin now forces himself to touch the unconscious man's shoulder, his mouth contorting with effort, _Who are you. Who are you..._ his teeth bared. This second of hesitation will doom him; running feet are coming closer, and then she, the breathless rose of Sharon, barging in, stumbling to a halt as she spots the man on the ground.

Growling soundlessly, he blends in with the shadows of the alley once more.

And then Gunderson arrives before she can finish what he started, and break the man's neck with a single grip of her strong hands. Joachim Karel knocks her out with a blow, remains standing, he a pillar and she, his temple, falling down.

XX

"Well, well... Look what the cat dragged in..."

The way he sees it, there are a million better ways to wake up than nose flat against damp cobblestones, head throbbing madly and... and... is that a boot?

"How's things, old buddy?" he groans. Not only a boot, but also a gun.

Gunderson's boot pokes his ribs again, the mire firmly locked on his head. "Better for me than for you, it seems."

Somehow he manages to scramble up to a more dignified sitting position. "Wiser words were never spoken..." he grimaces, fingering the mighty bump on his head. Two feet away, the woman is lying prone in the dust, as still as if dead. Goddammit, what a screw-up.

"Well, what a happy coincidence…" The gun shifts (minimally, but still...) to the woman and back (alas, too soon) to Kurtis' head. "Friend of yours?"

"Well..." Kurtis considers the question, "not really, no."

"Partners?"

"Jeez, man, who do you take me for? Just happened to be in the neighbourhood, had nothing better to do. You know, thought I might as well absorb some culture..."

"You got the opening times all mixed up, Kurtie-boy," Gunderson tsk-tsks.

Kurtis sighs. "Okay. I need some cash, that's all."

"Then you should have stuck around in Tchechenia..."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know. It wasn't a very nice chapter, so I skipped it."

"Hmph," Gunderson gives a dry chuckle. "Chickened out, you mean, and next you got yourself a white collar job." He shakes his head in mock wonder. "Bouncer in a second rate club, you sucker, aren't you ashamed."

"Aw, but it was a classy club. Until your pals came dancing in, anyway. But I'd long quit the party by then, in case you hadn't noticed."

Gunderson grasps the proffered arm and yanks Kurtis onto his feet, not particularly gently. "Hands on your head, Trent." He steadies him with the gun as he starts pitching forward again, and barks over his shoulder. "Headshoot her."

"Wait!" The moment he speaks, he knows he might be raising his stakes too high, that this desperate move may cost him his ass. What is she to him after all? Solely a need, then, simple courtesy between fellow thieves. "She's harmless, Marten. Just some chick, leave her be."

Gunderson turns to him, scrutinizing his face, and then starts smiling again, truly amused this time. "Still the ladies man?"

Kurtis shrugs, his own smile matching the other man's. "Fuck off, Marten, why dontcha." One of Gunderson's men is deftly going through the woman's clothes, and in his opinion, fumbling more than strictly necessary. Though still out cold, she moans softly, as if protesting. "And tell that moron to lay off. It's not inside her shirt, what you want."

"You got there first?" Gunderson's smile turns wider, as he expertly starts frisking Kurtis' pockets. "How convenient. We can waste you both, then..."

"Whatever makes your day, compadre. But, Marten, old man, your boss, he might be needing her soon. And yours truly, I might add."

Gunderson straightens, rubs his chin, thinking this over. "He may. He may not. Where's the goddammed painting, sweetie?"

Kurtis lowers one hand to his pouch and at once the safety on several guns are clicked off. "Whoa, whoa, guys, give a man a break." Slowly he eases out the fourth Obscura painting and hands it to Gunderson. "All yours. Got a smoke?"

To his surprise, Marten actually gives him a cigarette. Feeling sick, sicker than a whack on his thick skull could justify, Kurtis lights it up, hoping for all he's worth his trembling hands will be attributed to nicotine withdrawal and not to some fancy notion to save the crazy chick's hide. "You know who she is?" he asks, motioning to the woman's prostrated body. "Lady Lara Croft, gravedigger et adventurer rara avis, RABG, wanted for murder. Offed some German professor in the Chantelle, two days ago. And Bigfoot, apparently. Don't you read the papers, for chrissake?"

"So? You headhunting now, brother?"

"Marten, " he sighs, lowering his voice. "She'll get you the last painting if you let her, dude. Come on, you never said no to a promotion."

"Ah." The Scandinavian grins. "I spare her, I still don't see why the fuck I should spare you."

"Ain't we slow tonight..." Kurtis rolls his eyes. "Let's say I'll be the reason she'll surrender it? The lady doesn't part willingly with her little treasures, and who do you know more persuasive than me?"

Marten Gunderson cocks his head, studying his old friend's bright smile, and takes a step back.

"All right, you bastard, no one. Cheese it." He gestures to his men to back away, and Kurtis staggers through them, nursing his head and casting an aggrieved last look at sleeping beauty in the alley.

"And, Kurtis..." Marten laughs behind him, "the next beer's on your tab."

"You bet," he scowls back. "Perhaps in Prague."

XXX

**-11-**

"We need a new tin opener," Lara says as Winston lifts the broken tool and studies it with a blank expression.

"I'll put it on the shopping list. When did you get back?" The butler primly gathers the used tea bags from the kitchen counter and carries them, together with a can that looks like it's been opened with a grenade, and the mortal remains of the tin opener, to the waste bin.

"Late last night."

"Didn't hear you."

Lara takes a big bite of her beans on toast, and speaks through a full mouth. "The TV was blaring."

Winston grabs a dish cloth, wrings it under the tap and starts wiping the mess on the counter. "And, how did your holiday go?"

"Just great, aside from some minor shagging-in-a-hammock difficulties," Lara sputters, still chewing. She stuffs the rest into her mouth and lifts a hand, wriggling her fingers under the butler's nose. "Look here. Got myself shackled!"

"Congratulations." Winston's face remains impassive, although he does stoop to brush away the crumbs on his lapel. Blast him, the old bugger is always so hard to impress.

"You're not surprised?"

"No. It was bound to happen, eventually." The butler peers at the blackened something inside the pot and with an almost imperceptible shake of the head, heads again for the waste bin. "I suspect your father won't be pleased."

"No he won't," Lara concedes, wiping the sauce off her mouth but not the devilish smile.

Winston scrapes the scorched beans into the bin and drops the pot in the sink, unperturbed. "So, when is he moving in?"

"Who?" she asks innocently, offering him her empty mug.

He accepts it with no visible recognition of the _Guinness is good for you_ logo."Your husband, mayhap? I mean Mr. Trent, of course."

"Mr. T-? Oh!" Lara's eyes grow wide. "Winston, I didn't marry _Kurtis_!"

The mug slips out of the butler's stunned hands and shatters against the floor.

"Gotcha!" Lara tells him smugly. "By the way, that will have you saying Hail Marys till Kingdom come. You broke Father Dunstan's favourite mug."

XXX

**-4-**

"This is a vegetarian household," Winston explains proudly.

"So what's all that meat there for?" Kurtis points at the fridge, truly puzzled.

The butler cocks his head and taps his nose, considering his next move. If he could move his rook to C-12 and then have the queen finish it… The little forlorn pawn on C-10 is bothersome, though.

"Hello? Earth to Winston?"

The butler looks up from the chessboard.

"The meat?" Kurtis insists.

Reaching a decision, Winston gets up and nods. "Come with me. I'll show you."

By the time they get back, the boy won't notice the missing crucial pawn, he reckons. Bless the piranhas. With a magician's flourish, Winston slips the pawn into his pocket.

XXX

**-8-**

"Kurtis! Don't act obtuse with me. You know so well what I mean. Look, in the last few weeks I've come up with about a hundred different ways I could kill or maim you. Would you call that a good basis?"

He shrugs, picking a cigarette out of his pack, oblivious to the many No Smoking signs around them.

"One hundred and one…" she says, snatching it out of his hands before he can light it.

"Write them down, Croft. It's a good therapeutic measure." He lunges forward, trying to snatch it back. Lara violently jerks her arm back, loses her balance and crashes onto the floor. Winded and all, she still manages to snap it clean in two halves.

"Ow!" Kurtis growls, slumping back into his chair.

XXX

**-13-**

Kurtis (smugly): "OK Croft, here's a rule for you. Wanna hear it?"

Lara (laughing): "No."

Kurtis (even more smugly): "You'll love it, trust me."

Lara (convinced): "No I won't"

Kurtis (impervious): "So this is Croft Manor's rule number…"

Lara (warningly): "Careful, Trent…"

Kurtis (somewhat confused): "What number?"

Lara (with a puzzled frown): "Can't remember. Winston?"

Winston (plaintive): "Six."

Kurtis (pleased and smug): "OK, six."

**Croft Manor's rule No 6:**** Whatever you do, don't upset the lady.**

Winston (at Lara): "Isn't it a pity he never plays by the rules?"

Kurtis (indignant): "Me?! Look who's talking!"

Lara (sighing): "Children…"

Kurtis (at Lara and still indignant): "He cheats. All the time. Honestly, Croft!"

Winston (haughtily and in the beta's voice): "I shan't dignify that remark with a response."

Lara (slowly but surely losing her patience): "Stop at once or you're both going into the fridge. Those rules were useless, anyway."

Winston (sulking): "No one listens to me here."

Kurtis (elbowing Winston as a fed up Lara strides out of the room): "Oh, but I do, Pops. Tell me, then. What do you think it'd happen if we ignore that one?"

Winston (retrieving a folded Star-Spangled banner form under his chair): "Why don't we just find out?"

**Croft Manor's rule No. 7:**** And if you've come this far ignoring the rules, then refer to:**** Home of the brave**

XXX

**-7-**

"He said he wanted the_ box._ He got the box."

"Full of chocolate. Pierre doesn't even like chocolate."

"Too bad. It was perfectly good chocolate." Heck, why does she act so defensive? After all, it's not like she has to justify her own behaviour, is it? But what's puzzling Lara is the careless familiarity with which Kurtis refers to the Café Metro's owner. "Tell me, were Pierre and you… acquainted, somehow?"

"Hmm…"

"You were!"

Kurtis shrugs. "Course I know the jerk. What did you think I was doing there?"

_Stalking me_, she thinks darkly.

"We worked together, me and Pierre."

"Pierre and I," she corrects automatically. "Worked together?"

"Yup. He a barman, me the bouncer."

Lara blinks. "He- you- Ah. No!"

Kurtis waves a hand, looking suspiciously smug. Lara answers her own unasked question."Bloody hell. Don't answer that one!"

"Wasn't gonna, actually."

Lara gives him The Look. "What else don't I know about you, Mr. Smith? _Apart_ from your name?"

"A whole bunch of things that you won't find out unless you come up with the right questions..." Kurtis smirks, thinking how much he loves it when she's thrown off balance.

"I'm not certain," Lara grumbles, "I appreciate the way you keep twisting my formulations to suit your own low purposes."

"…and don't assume you have the right answer…" he finishes the sentence, clearly having the time of his life, which Lara finds _extremely_ unfair.

"Are you American at all?"

For a change he looks truly surprised. "Sure."

"But a French citizen…"

"_Français par le sang versé_… " he says lightly. "And for some French blood that got into me, somehow."

"Aha. Like, biologically French?"

"Biologically?" he snorts. "Dunno. You'll have to ask my mother."

"I thought your mother was dead?"

"Says who?" he blinks. "Last thing I heard she was happily remarried to a Columbian drug kingpin and sipping margaritas in Florida."

"Good God, my parents will disown me again. You're a mongrel."

"How charmingly put. But yeah, I guess that fits. Some French, some German, some Russian, I think. Bit of everything, really. Even got some Navajo in me."

"Oh bugger off!"

He laughs. "Honest to God, Croft."

"Watch out, you'll be reduced to ashes any minute now…" she declares, pointedly looking up, though it seems that God has decided not to interfere yet. Sourly, Lara tries to digest all this, especially the lack of support from the higher powers. "And you were living in France?"

"I was living on an island. I've told you that."

"And before? You must have a base of some kind, somewhere…"

"Like headquarters, you mean?" he asks with a slow, lazy grin. "I'm a free spirit, Croft."

"And I'm Maria Callas," says Lara, smelling blood. "_Where_ in France?"

He looks like he's going to burst out with laughter any moment. "Paris. 11th _arrondissement_…"

"Oh no, oh no, oh no…" she moans.

"Sorry, but oh yes. Rue Dominique, _Le Marais_. Code for the door is…"

"Ah, stop!"

Now he laughs. "Liked my place, Croft?"

"The furniture was hideous. Who is she, you cheating bastard?"

"Hey, hey! How am I a cheating bastard? You never even asked!"

"Who. Is. She."

"Ooh, come on, poor Francine. Leave her out of this…"

"She's too old for you."

He lifts his eyebrows, amused. "She's couple of years younger than you, Missus…" As her mouth turns down in a very comical way, he laughs and throws an arm over her shoulder, squeezing her lightly against him. "She's Pierre's woman, Croft. Nothing else. And because they're always fighting, she rents my place. Simple as that."

"So you weren't stalking me…" she's trying to wrestle away, which is probably why she can't conceal any better how disappointing the realisation is.

"I was having breakfast, doll."

"You drink wine for _breakfast_?!"

XX

**The beta:** Hmm, I don't know. Why would the lazy git use his bike to travel down a few metres?

**The author:** Because he's a lazy git? Come on, allow me at least some poetic license.

**The beta:** I did. There was no trash bin under Carvier's window.

**The author:** OK! OK! I forgot! Maaann!

**The beta:** …just saying…

XXX

**-6-**

"Call him back, will you?!" Lara shrieks, ducking behind a fallen pillar. With a loud clatter, the sword crashes against stone.

"Nah," Kurtis says, patting his pockets in search of his lighter. "I want to see how you get outta this."

"Fine!" Rising suddenly, she fires another bullet right through the skeleton's left socket.

"That's bound to make it worse..."

"Yet I don't give a flying duck." She pulls the trigger again, but no bullet comes this time. "Bugger…" she grumbles, hurling the empty shotgun at the advancing skeleton. "Can I borrow your Boran-whateveryoucallit?"

"Over my dead body. You'll break it." He blows out a cloud of smoke, then whistles admiringly as she dodges the sword at the last possible moment and lands a mighty kick on the knight's groin. "Ouch."

Lara uses the break to make a dive for her backpack."Like he minds. He's not much left down there, haven't you noticed?" At this, the skeleton looks down at where once was his pride and joy, and glares back at her with what would be reproach if he still had eyes

"Aw, look at him. Now you're hurting his feelings, you mean, mean woman."

"You're the funniest person ever, you know?" Lara scowls over her shoulder.

His brow shoots up. "I thought I was the most _irritating_ person ever…"

"That was me." As it happens, the skeleton agrees with that, and with an enraged grunt charges again. Lara stumbles back with a squeak.

"Really, Croft, what is it with you and all that violence?" Kurtis squints through the smoke as a frantic Lara rummages the depths of her backpack while trying to outrun the skeleton at the same time. "Poor guy would be worshipping the ground you tread on if you hadn't shot at him in the first place."

"Don't I know that…" she tries to sigh, but it comes out rather like wheezing. "Always happens to me. Have I told you about that time in Tibet?"

"I don't think so."

"Well. Tibet. A monastery, get the picture?" Lara pulls out a Desert Eagle and aims. "This Dalai-Lama-wannabe jumps at me, out of the blue. Scared me stiff."

"And?"

"And I shot him, what else. Worst idea ever…" The skeleton explodes like a firework. "Ha!"

"You shot a Buddhist monk?"

"A whole tribe. They just kept coming at me."

"A Buddhist monk…" Kurtis repeats, shaking his head in awe. "I thought those were pacifists!"

Bit by bit, the skeleton reassembles again, grunting. Lara slams the next clip in.

"I don't know about that, but at least those monks had the decency of _staying_ dead…"

XX

**The Beta:** Author's insert! Author's insert!

**The author:** (... does a full eye-roll...)

XXX

**-15-**

"Bloody hell! What on earth is wrong with you?!"

"Wrong with me? With _me_?! You've just shot me!"

"It's only a scratch, stop fussing." Pressing both hands on the wound, Lara raises her head and hollers. "Winston, get us a medipack!"

"Winston, get us a fuckin' ambulance!" Kurtis hollers even louder, then looks down at his bleeding thigh and moans. "Holy crap, I don't believe it. Two inches to the right and we'd be waving goodbye to the babies!"

"How many times, how many bloody times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?!" Wrangling herself out of her blue kimono she bunches up the garment and tries ineffectually to prevent the blood from spreading on the floor. "There, I'm naked now, are you happy? Bloody wanker!"

"Where the fuck is he?" Kurtis mutters, unimpressed. "Wiiiinston!"

"Wait till he sees this! Blood stains, they never really come off!" Lara cries out, scrubbing the tiles for all she's worth.

"And what the fuck are you doing with a shotgun..." Kurtis groans and tries to grab a towel or something to cover himself. Towel out of reach, he settles for a sponge instead, a yellow bathing sponge shaped like a..."Oh shit oh shit ohshit... In the shower, for fuck's sake!"

"Next time say something before you tiptoe in, stupid. At this rate you'll end up joining the others in the fishes' digestive tract..."

"The others?" Kurtis blinks at the duck on his groin, thinks again, and, on second thought, pales. "The _fishes_?"

"Don't you dare die on me!" she screams, hurling herself on top of him and thumping his chest in a most ungentle way.

"I'm not dying, leave me alone!" he gags, trying to slide out of her reach. "Why the _fishes_?"

"You're going all green! Oh Kurtis, baby, please! I love you, you know I'd never dispose of you in that w-"

"Lara," white as a sheet, he looks up at her in horrified realisation, "I made myself a burger this morning!"

"You- _what?!_" she clasps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, then gives a shriek of laughter. "Good grief, did Winston never tell you why we bother with those piranhas at all?!"

XXX

**-14-**

"Whoa!" Kurtis laughs, as the water erupts, countless silvery fishes bringing it to boil in their eagerness to catch their share of food.

"Easy, easy, my pets. There's enough for everyone…" Winston chuckles, lowering another chunk of meat into the aquarium. "If you really want to retrieve that key of yours, now is the moment to jump in, Mr. Trent, sir."

Kurtis nods and braces himself, but then he spots a particularly big specimen, that instead of coming for feeding, is slowly circling the bike's key, that for inexplicable reasons has ended up in the bottom of the fish tank. "Hey, Winston, look at the one over there. Doesn't that one look a little too… _green_ to you?"

The butler squints through his new glasses. "Indeed, indeed. Never seen it before…"

Kurtis stares at the piranha, his face completely blank. Then he spins on his heels and storms for the stairs, shouting. "Lara! Come down here, _at once_!"

XXX

**-10-**

Lara blinks at the name of the boat, painted with obvious care if with very little skill.

"You're a funny, funny person, Trent."

He wipes his hands on his cut-off jeans and takes a hesitant step in her direction. The kid is quicker and shoves himself between them, making Kurtis roll his eyes toward heaven with all the suffering look of a martyr. Lara misses it, since her attention is on the tall, sullen girl strolling a few feet away and pointedly ignoring them all.

"Your girlfriend doesn't like me much," she tells Madou in a confiding tone.

The little boy flashes her a big toothless smile. "She's jealous. And she's not my girlfriend anymore."

Kurtis gives the boy a warning look, to no effect. Ogling Lara with mooncalf eyes, the kid starts... howling?

"What is he doing?" an awed Lara whispers to Kurtis.

"Singing Nirvana," he whispers back. "He believes he's the new Kurt Cobain. _Ferme-la_, Madou. I want to ask the lady something."

"_C'est pas bon?"_

"No, no, it's awesome. Just a sec, OK?" Kurtis draws a deep breath and then stays just like that, open mouthed as all his courage decides to go for a vacation. "Shit," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut.

"That was a question?" Lara quirks her eyebrows, greatly enjoying his pained expression.

He shakes his head and points at the boat's name.

"Aha."

"Oh man, I'll regret this…" He rubs his face, and finally blurts out, "What do you say?"

"I say you'll regret it, all right." She folds her arms, determined to let him suffer for as long as she can. "Are you proposing to me, Mister?"

Kurtis chokes. "I'm what?"

"Well, I suppose I could say, why not? Got no better plans at the moment." Lara nods, and decides she'll have to make a quick exit before she betrays herself by bursting into laughter. "Bought the most perfect dress, you'll see. Just give me a moment to get changed..."

Kurtis contemplates his Masterpiece, scratching his head, and then calls over his shoulder:

"I'll take you to Helsinki, Croft!"

She waves without turning; and such a shame she doesn't, since she misses Kurtis' smug expression as he watches her hasty retreat. Landing a heavy swat on Madou's shoulder, the former Lux-Veritatis, ex-mercenary, current foe of sub-aquatic creatures and in-serious-risk-of-becoming future Lord of the Manor stoops and whispers: "Sorry, buddy, but I was there first," and grinning from ear to ear, takes off after her.

Madou stares at the boat's name, frowning. "_Je __ne__ pige que dalle. __Il dit qu'il s'appelle Trencavel, pas 'Smith'…_"

Marie-Céleste, who's studying a broken shell with fake indifference, shrugs. "_Vas demander Kurkubain_."

XXX


	33. On the perils of shagging in hammocks

**On the Perils of Shagging in Hammocks**

_Being a Cautionary Tale from the pen of an Evil Beta_

"This was _your_ idea, Kurtis. Bloody 'hammock in the sun', indeed..."

"Sorry, Croft." The voice issuing from in between folds of netting doesn't sound remotely sorry, but rather insufferably smug. It's hard to see why, since he's no closer to his goal than he was when they first started over half an hour ago.

It _had_ been his idea, and it seemed like such a good one at the time, when, in a happy-go-lucky haze of sunshine, cocktails, and hormones, he had spotted it - a wide string hammock, just like the one he'd always dreamed of - suspended invitingly between two palm trees in a patch of sunlight, looking as if it were waiting for them.

He should have known better.

And she had rolled her eyes a bit, but being also influenced by her hormones and a few too many cocktails, had finally laughed and agreed, allowing him to tug her over there by the hand.

She had settled into the hammock without too much difficulty, but it was when he attempted to join her that their woes began.

The hammock had been designed for one. And apparently it knew this, because as he tried to slide in beside her, it had tipped in an unmistakeably disapproving manner, depositing him unceremoniously onto the ground while she clung grimly onto the canvas sides.

The same thing had happened several times. But now, undeterred and still horny, he finally manages to climb back in on top of her now in a tangle of limbs which, to the casual observer, might resemble a heap of fornicating squid.

(The 'casual observer', currently orbiting a nearby rock pool, is greenish, about eight inches long, and has extremely sharp teeth. It is worth noting that the pool's other inhabitants, sensing danger somewhere in their dim crustacean brains, have speedily withdrawn beneath shelves and clumps of seaweed, or dug themselves into the sand, and are now nowhere to be seen.)

After many tries they achieve a precarious balance. Lara's bikini comes off with deceptive ease, followed by Kurtis' shorts. A series of careful manoeuvres puts them in approximately the right position, her legs clasped around his middle for stability, but, unable to see what he's doing, Kurtis aims wrongly and instead of her warm, welcoming flesh, encounters the hammock's tight mesh instead.

"Oh my God..."

"Kurtis? What?"

"It's...trapped!"

Looking at Kurtis' horror-struck face, all traces of smugness wiped away by his predicament, Lara is overcome by a fit of laughter that apparently doesn't impress their temperamental hammock, because it shakes threateningly again, twisting from side to side. Kurtis starts to panic in earnest.

A stream of bubbles, a kind of sub-marine snigger, breaks the surface of the rock pool.

"Lara, please for the love of God please, keep still!"

"What, are we going to stay here all day?"

"Yes," he says grimly. "_Keep still_, dammit."

She does, but can't resist pointing out, "Your arse is going to get sunburned."

He risks a glance over his shoulder. She's right, it's already starting to redden.

His renewed struggles to extricate himself result in a fatal imbalance, and despite Lara's valiant attempts to redistribute her weight to correct it, in the end he's heavier than she is, and the situation is lost.

Sea and sky swap places, the horizon spinning crazily in a blue blur, and when the revolutions finally cease, they find themselves suspended face down a few feet above the golden sand, hopelessly trapped in twisted fabric. To make matters worse, a party of tourists, guided by a small boy wearing shades and a Nirvana t-shirt, has appeared in the distance and is making its way along the shore, getting steadily nearer.

At least his manhood has worked its way free, though not without consequence. When they get out of this, it's going to be a while before they try anything similar. He closes his eyes and thinks longingly of icepacks.

Just as he's thinking that they'll have to hope one of those tourists has a pocket knife to cut them free, the hammock's tortured bindings unravel and give way with a snap, and the two of them find themselves scrabbling on the sand like large pink spiders, grabbing at palm fronds with which to cover themselves. Lara considers making a dash for the sea and immersing herself up to the neck in water.

The abrupt removal of their weight has made the supporting palms shudder violently, and the reverberations shake loose the largest coconut of all. It drops, with cruel inevitability, onto Kurtis' head, connecting hard before landing in two neat halves beside him on the sand.

"Dinner!" says Lara brightly, pointing at it, but then another use occurs to her.

The tourists' surprise can only be imagined when, on arriving a few minutes later, they find a man and a woman sitting side by side beneath the mangled remains of a hammock, wearing fixed smiles and swimwear that appears to be made from strategically-placed coconut halves. To say that the party moves on quickly would be an understatement.

"Some reunion this turned out to be," mutters Kurtis, one hand massaging his skull, the other protectively holding his coconut shell in place somewhere lower down. Lara, for her part, wonders if she'll ever be able to prise those things off her chest. Meanwhile, the magnificent specimen of _pisces nephilus _does a few jubilant victory laps of its pool, and a little way down the beach the small boy clutches his sides in helpless laughter.

_And now, gentle reader, I bid you adieu. Don't try this at home! _

_Don't try it on holiday either. In fact, don't try it anywhere. Seriously, it just isn't worth it. _


End file.
